


Partners in Crime

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Angst, Asexual Character, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Discussion of Abortion, Face-Sitting, Gang Violence, Gentleman Thieves, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Organized Crime, Out of Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Prison, Prostitution, Smoking, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Transphobia, transtalia, undercover cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 111,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Belfaux in the '20s is a rainy city of sin. Its most notorious criminals are Gilbert Beilschmidt, the Prussian gangster; Antonio Fernández Carriedo, the kind-hearted pimp; and Francis Bonnefoy, gentleman thief and partner to Arthur Kirkland, thief-of-all-trades.Desperate to get in the good graces of his people, Grand Duke Roderich Edelstein calls in Agent Alfred Jones, a prodigy in the art of undercover deception. With Arthur's reluctant help, Alfred becomes part of the criminal family, but he knows none of them can be trusted. Alfred's mission goes well until, despite his best intentions, love begins to bloom. Secrets start to unravel. And all must prove where their loyalties lie.Because in Belfaux, honesty is the deadliest weapon.[USUK. Spamano. PruAus. GerIta. SuFin. DenNor.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place on/in an island/city called Belfaux, located somewhere in the Channel between England and France. Obviously, this does not exist in real life. I stole the name from a municipality in Switzerland (I'm pretty sure they say it differently there, but in the story it's pronounced bell-foh). Also, there are some historical inaccuracies, so consider it 1920s-esque.
> 
> Oh, and there's an FTM England in this story who binds with bandages. DO NOT bind with bandages. It is, as shown, NOT a good idea.
> 
> Thank you for reading, my friends! I'm excited to finally bring you this story n.n

_**1 9 2 7** _

**DOWNTOWN**

The city gleams.

Rain soaks it, weeping from the wide-eyed windows of storefronts, battering dull-skinned automobiles and umbrellas, their jagged domes the reflective black of false night. Humans soldier on, marching from poor-paying jobs to well-paid casinos, pubs, clubs. Downtown is a throbbing fluorescent heart; it pulses and rages with relentless, euphoric palpitations. The asphalt is dark, but its coat of water leaves color smeared, a warped mirror of the lights overhead. Two young men link arms and serenade their luck at a fraudulent poker game. Foundry workers pound metal hammers against metal dreams, the clanging canticle of men made of sweat and smoke. A cat breathes a final, moist breath and lies dead in an alley, where the rain will impede its rotting for quite some time.

This, this bright island city, is a wild animal. It breathes down the necks of honest men, tempting them to loosen their ties, drink their faces red, ruin their marriages, mortgages, morals. It tears the clothes from girls, tosses them onto stages or into hotel rooms. It encourages the old to die, and let the young destroy themselves in peace. Men become wallets, girls become meat. All for the money. Anything for a thrill. Nothing is a mistake with enough alcohol inside you.

“Belfaux,” says Alfred Jones, eyes devouring the city through the taxi’s clouded backseat window. The traffic moves in sparse fits; everywhere are lights, red and green, white and gold. Beside the cab, a dappled horse regards Alfred with its weary, dark eye. _Poor thing._ Alfred watches rainwater trail down the horse’s face, beading on its fat bottom lip. He thinks of his childhood steed, a steadfast Appaloosa mare. Willing to work in the rain, but rarely expected to. Alfred breathes out a silent sigh of nostalgia for the ranch, then asks, “Does it always rain like this?”

The cabbie snorts. “Where did you say you are from?”

“The grand ol’ foothills of Tennessee,” he says, letting his honeyed drawl come through, something that always made his fellow officers-in-training laugh. Ah, the police academy days. Endless sit-up tests, God help us.

“Hein?”

Alfred has a feeling he’ll hear a lot of that French sound of confusion during his stay here. “Stateside, down south.”

“Ah, oui, guns and hamburgers.”

 _Am-ber-gairs._ Alfred grins. “Close enough.”

The lights change; Alfred watches the horse’s head jerk when reins slap its rump. The wagon rolls away, droplets of water flicked up by its oversize rear wheels. Alfred wonders when the horse will be allowed to rest tonight, if ever, and where that rest might take place. Does the creature have a stable, a mucky pasture? Or just a parking space, like any other abused machine?

“So, euh,” says the cabbie, “you are here for pleasure, or business?”

“Hopefully it’ll turn out to be both,” replies Alfred, “but officially it’s business.”

Confidential business; thankfully, the cabbie doesn’t question him further, instead focusing on his driving as they finally start moving again. Alfred takes in as much of downtown as he can from his mobile vantage point. He’s seen plenty of cities, but none quite like this. In the butter yellow window of a supperclub, a trio of feathered stripteasers trip the light fantastic. A man in a trench coat presses against the outside of the glass, and Alfred has to smile when a broad-shouldered bouncer steps out to strong-arm him away. Under a tattered overhang, a swarthy gent in a dinner jacket blows a trumpet into a rolling, roiling melodious malady. Countless casinos clang, jangle, and scream. Such bright, gaudy monsters.

“I can see the appeal of this place,” says Alfred, trying as usual to sound more professional than he feels. He hadn’t thought this troubled city would sing to him, but it does, a despicable siren. Still, it doesn’t appeal to him in the same way it does to others. Some men are utterly hypnotized by these lights, the allure of just one bet, one taste, one night. Others—who will be met later—see the city for the beast that it is and endeavor to become sharp fangs in Belfaux’s gaping maw. Alfred is different. He sees the dragon.

And he intends to slay it.

 

**CHÂTEAU EDELSTEIN**

It is by no mistake that the ferries drop Belfaux’s many visitors off downtown. The city does not believe in coy seduction; it thrusts itself into its victims’ faces, untamed and unashamed. This weeds out the weak from the clever, and pours coins into the city’s purse. Those lucky bastards who make it past the temptation of quick riches find themselves in midtown, where there are endless streets lined on both sides with shops. If there is demand, Belfaux will supply. Many a tourist has turned down gambling, drinking, and leching—only to find their high road paved with poverty when they leave midtown. While downtown spits out stumbling, red-eyed, half-dressed chumps, midtown bids farewell to people laden with shopping bags, mumbling excuses to themselves: _I didn’t mean to spend so much, but I saw this and I just had to have it, they don’t sell these at home, let’s call it some early holiday shopping, but doesn’t this just look wonderful on me?_

Yes. Yes, it does.

Those who make it through downtown and midtown unscathed—saints and locals, mostly—reach uptown, the residential district. Here, there is nothing to buy or sell; the only attraction is the grandeur of the upper class homes. The houses—and, indeed, the entire city—are of less and less quality the farther west you go. The west, the English Shore, is a slum. The east, the French Shore, is a string of jewels, and the most beautiful of these jewels is the Grand Duke’s mansion.

“Are you certain about this?” asks Basch, for the seventh time today. “You don’t have to go through with it. He doesn’t even have to come in. I’ll meet him in the lane—”

“Please.” Roderich is seated on one of the rolled-arm chairs in his parlor. He’s sunken into the plush cushioning; these chairs are new, from this season’s redecoration. Lucille tells him red is in, so the parlor is all crimson and cream, with gold accents. He prefers blues and purples, but he is not one for petty squabbles. “There is nothing to worry about, Basch. Agent Jones is coming to help us. If we cannot trust him, this has no point.”

Basch’s golden hair glows under the chandelier’s light, but his expression is dark with misgiving. “If you say so. I don’t like it. Trusting someone we have never met—”

The doorbell chimes. Outside the parlor, in the hall, the porter’s footsteps echo. Roderich smiles lightly at his bodyguard. “Here, now we will meet him and your fretting will cease.”

Green eyes roll at that. “I’ll stop fretting just as soon as you do, Mein Herr.”

Roderich glimpses the sparkle of fondness in Basch’s eyes just before they harden into their usual unreadable state.

An entreating knock on the door. The porter speaks first in French, then in English, for their guest’s benefit. “Mr. Jones is here, for . . . meeting, my lord.”

Roderich feels amusement bubble in his chest at the hesitant English phrase of respect. Never has anyone in this household called Roderich their _lord_ , but he made sure they all knew it when he hired them. After all, he has dreams of one day reopening trades with England, and how would the ambassadors feel if Roderich’s servants addressed them as Herr or, God forbid, Monsieur?

“Come,” calls Roderich. His English is like an old coat; not the fanciest in his closet, but comfortable enough to wear from time to time.

The door opens, and here is Alfred Jones. Broad shoulders, bright blue eyes, dressed informally—as instructed—in a leather jacket and denim trousers. His hair drips rainwater onto the velvet rug, but a short strand in front sticks up in the air, heedless of the wet. Alfred stands with his hands behind his back, his eyebrows inching upward as his gaze wanders over the intricate carvings on the parlor chairs, the gold-and-ruby chandelier above, the oil paintings of mountain forests with unicorns and tatzelwurms hidden among the trees.

 _He’s a trained and acclaimed agent,_ Roderich reminds himself. This is needed because Alfred’s youthful posture reduces his twenty-five years to nineteen, eighteen, even younger. Fortunately, his obliviousness to this adds to his charm.

“Thank you,” says Roderich, to dismiss the porter. “Please, take a seat, Mr. Jones. I don’t want this meeting to go too long into the night.”

Alfred sits down opposite Roderich, making a soft sound of surprise when the cushion deflates beneath his weight. The way he sits reminds Roderich of Gilbert: legs spread, shoulders back, claiming the space.

“Mr. Zwingli will be staying with us during the discussion, but he will not be contributing,” says Roderich, gesturing politely to his bodyguard. Basch stands near the door, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixated on Alfred. _If you think this man is a danger,_ Roderich can’t help thinking, _you should see who I spend my other nights with._ (Not that he thinks Gilbert would ever hurt him, or any innocent person, for that matter.) Basch knows nothing of Roderich’s love affair, because Roderich fears the news would send his bodyguard into an undiscovered realm of worry, perhaps distinguished by convulsions, a rash, frothing. Quite unsightly, definitely. Roderich will tell him someday, preferably when this is all sorted out. _When,_ he tells himself. _Not if._

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he says to Alfred. “I tried not to sound desperate in our correspondence, but . . .” He gives a restrained sigh, feeling the stiff support of the corset beneath his shirts and waistcoat. “Things in Belfaux are on the edge of disaster. What is the word—teetering.”

Alfred nods, kindness softening his solemn expression. “You didn’t sound desperate to me. Just like a guy who needs some assistance.” He smiles. “And I’m happy to help.”

Roderich finds himself refreshed to find someone unbothered by propriety and codes of address. _Just a guy._ Ah, imagine the freedom of being a random gent on the street. _Just some guy._ Roderich is not _just_ anything. He is _the._ The Grand Duke. The leader. The man who might ruin everything, if Alfred Jones can’t slay that dragon.

“The biggest problem in Belfaux right now is crime,” says Roderich. “It’s been an issue for years, but it’s different now than it was before. Once, the city was full of gangs—every inch of downtown was the territory of some band of thugs or other. The police tried to stop it, and unfortunately many officers lost their lives.” He crosses himself, inclining his head, and sees Basch and—after a moment’s hesitation—Alfred do the same. “One gang, the Nachtadlers, rose up. They fought the other gangs one by one, and they eventually became the only gang in Belfaux. They’ve kept more from popping up.” _(Thank you, Gilbert.)_ “They are the apex predator, if you will. They serve a purpose.”

Alfred’s brow furrows. “But that’s like keeping a bear on your farm to scare wolves away. The bear is still a problem.”

Roderich’s heart has been torn for so long, it may as well be two different organs: one that beats for justice, and one that beats for Gilbert. “I know, it isn’t ideal. But you must understand. The police have never been replaced. After so many were killed, no one wanted to take the job. We only have a handful of constables left.”

Alfred shakes his head slowly, awed by the ineptitude and cowardice of the situation. This would never stand, back home; snuff out the flame as soon as it starts to burn, that’s the rule. Otherwise you end up with this mess. “Who’s the leader of the . . . what is it again?”

“Nachtadlers. Night eagles, in German. Their leader is Gilbert Beilschmidt.” Roderich hesitates, but he knows he should get it over with as soon as possible. “He is the brother of our police chief, Ludwig Beilschmidt.”

Alfred stares at him, uncomprehending. “Are you saying Ludwig is crooked?”

“No! No, far from it, I assure you. He’s been doing his best to keep order and peace in this city, but . . . Frankly, we’re overwhelmed, Mr. Jones.” Roderich takes a breath, as deep as he can with his stays laced. “And it’s more than a crime problem. Do you know the history of this city?”

“Not at all.”

 _At least he’s honest._ “France and England have fought for control over this island for years. Sixty years ago, England finally relented and allowed France to have it, on some conditions. We still use British money here, for example. Half of the population here is French. The other half is immigrants. English, German, Spanish, Italian, just to name a few. As you can probably imagine, the French do not appreciate those foreigners.”

Alfred nods wisely. “They steal jobs and houses and opportunities from folks born here, right?”

“Those are the claims, yes.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“It’s a personal as well as political issue for me,” admits Roderich. “I was born in this city, but my father came from Vienna and my mother was a daughter of English nobility. My father was very close with the old Grand Duke, a Frenchman of course. He named my father his successor, and this island is my inheritance. The foreign populace supports me, for the most part, but the French as a whole would rather have a so-called _pureblood_ in my place.” He adjusts his spectacles with slightly trembling fingers. “If I cannot gain the support of _all_ the people, not just half, I fear a civil war will break out.”

Alfred blows a slow breath between his lips. “Well. I guess I better get to work. If we can lock up the biggest criminals in the city, that’ll be a big reputation booster for you, right?”

Roderich’s fingers absently tap his thighs as if picking keys on a phantom keyboard. “Oh, I do hope so, Mr. Jones.” His eyes, a peculiar but lovely dark violet, glitter moistly under the chandelier light. “For everyone’s sake.”

 

**SADDLE STREET**

By the time Alfred has ironed out a game plan that Roderich approves of, it’s past midnight. The Grand Duke seemed hesitant to let him go completely undercover, with no help from Ludwig. _It’s what my agency specializes in,_ Alfred assured him. He played up his confidence, because in truth this assignment makes him nervous. His big break—arresting a slew of mobsters in New Jersey by running with them for almost four months—was nerve-wracking at times, but at least it was on his own turf. Nothing here is like home. _But that doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself. _Just because they’re not American doesn’t mean they’re more dangerous. People are people._

Roderich offered to pay for a room in a nice hotel, but Alfred turned him down. _As soon as I leave this mansion, I’m in my role. That means no contact with me unless absolutely necessary. Understand?_ The bodyguard didn’t like that tone very much, but Alfred ignored him. The last thing he needs during a mission is some princely politician breathing down his neck, regardless of good or bad intentions.

A new taxi drops him off in front of a small hostelry. This is in a western part of downtown, so the exterior of the building is in shambles and its neighbors lean on it as if drunk. Alfred pays the cabbie and hurries inside, but he winds up newly drenched, despite his haste.

The lamps are electric, but they buzz and flicker in time with the wind, which throws bucketfuls of water against the windows. After the luxury of Roderich’s mansion, this place is woefully lackluster. Muted browns and greens, a mason jar of depressed lilies in yellowed water. The man behind the reception counter fits in well, with his sad green eyes and mousy brown hair. He offers Alfred two greetings, one in French and one in German. When neither spark understanding, he tries, “Hello?”

Alfred smiles wide enough to lighten the room a degree. “Hi. Do you have a room for me, by any chance?”

“Yes, yes, we have room.” Toris would not be surprised to hear that Alfred has assumed he’s Russian, but he is, in fact, Lithuanian. “You are stay—just one night?” Despite nearly a decade living on the English Shore (though the true shore is twenty minutes west, without traffic) Toris has never grasped the full complexities of the language. But, in his defense, the Brits in the slums aren’t exactly eloquent with their phrasings, either.

“I don’t know yet,” replies Alfred. “That depends what happens tomorrow.”

Toris nods gravely. So many things can change in a day. He came from home to here in a day, after all. This wretched isle. Toris removes a key from the row of hooks behind him, hands it to the American. “Here.” Then he leans over the counter and bawls down the hall, “Eduard!”

The Estonian trudges out to meet them. His fingertips are stained black with ink; he’s been in the back office, trying to make sense of their ledger. “Debt again,” says Eduard in Lithuanian. “Feliks and his damn party-going is to blame. No more gowns and fancy masks. Tell him that.”

Toris, distracted from the guest, raises his hands in exasperation. “Why me? You tell him.”

“Because he’s _your_ bedmate, that’s why, and don’t deny it.”

They regard each other with narrowed eyes, then deflate simultaneously. Neither have the strength for an actual fight. Everything wears thin on the English Shore. Clothes, funds, passions. The only time Toris’s numbness withdraws is when Feliks warms him beneath the sheets. If carouses make the Pole happy . . . well, at least _someone_ is, right?

Alfred clears his throat, a friendly reminder of his presence.

Lithuanian and Estonian smile apologetically at him. “Eduard will show your room.”

Eduard does indeed do this. Alfred peers around the place, feeling like a detective. He should get a little notepad, maybe a fedora (that would certainly help with the rain). If Alfred was taking notes, they would be things like _Wallpaper peeling in corners. Baseboard scuffed and damaged in hallway. Room small, single bed, one window, dresser with broken drawer. Child labor._ Because the tiny servant fluffing the pillow can’t possibly be older than fifteen.

“Room,” says Eduard, who has very little English.

Raivis—fifteen in two months, for the record—looks up, eyes wide. “Oh! Welcome!” He scurries to the door, bowing to Alfred. “It is all clean!”

Alfred chuckles. “Thanks. Can I have my pillow?”

Raivis looks down at the pillow still in his grasp as if unsure how it got there, then quickly hands it over. “Sorry!” He bows again, then hurries out.

Eduard nods to Alfred. “Enjoy.” Then he’s gone, as well, the door closing behind him.

Alfred sits down on the bed; springs creak hideously beneath him. He thinks back to all the hotels he’s stayed in while working for the agency, from ratty dives like this to swanky joints with chilled salad forks. He has no bed of his own to miss, unless you count his old bed in his parents’ ranch house, but he only sleeps in that when he goes home for Christmas. He thinks of the letters in his locker at the agency’s headquarters. _Come visit us,_ his mother writes. _We miss you._ His response is always the same. Too busy. Too much work. Too much expected of Alfred Jones, junior agent, the director’s pet prodigy.

Alfred eases himself down on the mattress, kicks off his shoes, tucks his arms behind his head. _You have so much natural charisma,_ the director told him once. _You were born to manipulate people, and we’re blessed that you use your power for good._ She said this with a note of desire in her voice, and a manicured hand on his shoulder. He’d just smiled at the time. _Thank you, ma’am._ Now, he cringes to think of it. The only positive consequence of her affections is a long leash—long enough to span the Atlantic while he works on their first international case. He recalls how her eyes lit up when he showed her Roderich’s letter. _If you pull this off, imagine it! More fame and acclaim!_

Yes, that’s just what he wants. More agents bitter that they’ll never achieve as much as he has. More time wasted with bureaucrats, pay raises, funding, benefits. Perhaps it’s selfish of him, having cake as well as eating it, but he wishes he could do his job without everyone making a big production of it. He just wants to help people. He doesn’t want to be showered with praise. All he needs is enough money for _am-ber-gairs._

Alfred looks up at the water-stained ceiling. His priority in Belfaux won’t be Gilbert Beilschmidt; Roderich made it clear that they lack the firepower needed to handle the Nachtadlers. His priority isn’t Antonio Fernández Carriedo, either; he runs the city’s biggest bordello, and Chief Ludwig Beilschmidt is currently working to clean that up. _Then who am I here for?_ Alfred asked the Grand Duke. _Miscellaneous?_

 _No,_ replied Roderich. _You are here for Arthur Kirkland._

Not for the gangster. Not for the pimp.

For the thief.

 

**MARKET SQUARE**

Alfred knows very little about pickpocketing, but he knows it’s often done in crowded areas, so that is where he goes the following morning.

Invisible to the agent for now, the thief watches. Leant against the brick wall of a church he doesn’t care to know the name of, right beneath rusted iron letters reading _Thou Shalt Not Steal_ , is Arthur Kirkland. He’s wearing his typical street clothes: dress shirt, trousers, Oxfords, waistcoat, and a hat to shield him from the drizzle. Beneath this hat, Arthur leans, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette, which he presently moves to his lips for an incendiary inhalation. Shaded by the brim of his hat, green eyes flick through the crowd with minuscule movements and no change of expression. He watches.

(Here is where we make a metaphor of some predator, a wolf or perhaps a lion, watching a herd of unsuspecting prey. Arthur, however, does not consider himself to be so malicious, and thus such a comparison would be, ahem, _distastefully inaccurate_.)

Arthur’s body is essentially motionless, its posture casual, himself seeming aloof, lost in thought. On the contrary, he is intensely alert, his mind racing as it takes in the milling crowd in the market across the street. Vendors call from their stalls, fresh bread, craftware, spirits, demanding attention. Arthur gives them none. He sees only the customers, in a sequence that takes a fraction of a second, his brain cutting efficiently to the relevant details. Woman, green jacket—paper bag in left hand—right hand free—right pocket slightly bulged—wallet in right pocket. Then his gaze flits from her to the man walking past her, then the pair of ladies separating to walk around him before coming together again like magnets attracted. He finds their wallets, notes the glint of jewelry at their wrists.

He takes a final puff from his cigarette, then tosses it into a puddle from last night’s downpour. _Time to go shopping._

The thief moves in.

“Do you speak English?” tries Alfred, for the third time. This market is near the center of midtown—close enough to the English Shore to offer affordable wares, but not close enough that anyone is fluent in English.

The fruitmonger in front of him holds out a bright apple. “Pomme? Fraîchement récolté.”

Alfred shakes his head. “No. Uh, non. Non merci?” (At least he’s trying.) “Do you know Arthur Kirkland?”

Recognition flickers across the vendor’s face, but he just holds out the apple insistently. “Gratis.”

Alfred knows that word, but he doesn’t want a snack, he wants answers. “Arthur Kirkland. Please.”

Behind him, a few paces away, the thief looks over his shoulder. His eyes narrow as they find the fruitmonger, who notices the attention and quickly averts his gaze. By the time Alfred turns around, the thief has vanished into the crowd. But still he watches, his curiosity piqued.

Alfred whirls to face the vendor. “Did you see him? Is he here?”

All he gets is panicked French and the offer of more fruit, so he makes his way through the shoppers. He only knows the basic details of what Arthur Kirkland looks like—blond hair, green eyes, small stature—and this disorganized cluster of people is only serving to frustrate him. While he’s studying one person, others are leaving. What if Arthur escapes? What if he’s already gone? Or, worse, what if he’s here right now, watching him?

Distracted, he walks right into someone, a shoulder hitting his breastbone. “Oh, God, sorry about that,” he says, letting the shorter man grasp his sleeve to keep from losing his footing.

“My fault entirely,” comes the quiet reply, in a crisp English accent.

A moment of epiphany. Last night. _Kirkland doesn’t sound very French._ And the response: _That’s because it isn’t. He’s British._

Alfred spins around, scanning for the man. How does he melt into the crowd like that? Wait—there! Brown waistcoat, and beneath the hat—blond hair. Alfred’s hands pat his pockets, slip inside.

His wallet is gone.

“Arthur Kirkland!” he exclaims, drawing the attention of passersby.

The thief does not look back. He bolts.

Alfred sprints after him, first hindered by the people, then by the streets. Arthur runs westward—of course he does, he is a criminal—and the path he takes goes through side streets, back alleys, between walls so close together Alfred nearly knocks his shoulders against them. The sky spits drizzle in his face, and a stitch laments in his side, but he keeps running. In his experience, criminals are sprinters. Adrenaline gives them speed, but not stamina. If he can wear Arthur down, he’ll catch him.

The end of the chase comes as a surprise to both of them.

One second, Alfred is several strides behind Arthur—and the next, he rounds a corner, and there is the thief, staggering a few final steps before he collapses. _Out of breath?_ Quite so. As Alfred draws near, he hears not the shaky panting of overexertion, but the terrified gasps of lungs unable to get air.

“Are you alright?” Alfred kneels on the filthy pavement of this dank alleyway, carefully rolls Arthur onto his back. “Do you have an inhaler?”

The thief’s face is flushed now, lips parted wide like a hooked fish, and his pale fingers are stumbling over the buttons of his waistcoat. Seeing what he wants, Alfred unbuttons it swiftly, then—when met with another set of buttons on the dress shirt underneath—grabs either side of the shirt and yanks them apart. Two buttons go flying, but Alfred doesn’t notice. His eyes are on the bandages wrapped tightly around Arthur’s chest. Too tight. Bracing himself for whatever wound might lie beneath, Alfred removes a pocketknife from his jacket and cuts the bandages, which fall away to reveal a pair of small but very real breasts.

Arthur inhales deeply and exhales in plain relief. Alfred can only stare, the image is so jarring, like a bird with a cat’s tail, a horse with a crocodile head. A man with breasts. Is he a man? Alfred’s gaze drops to the notable curve of that pale waist, then lower, to the zipper of his trousers, seeking any hint of bulge.

“You’re welcome to stop your bloody staring.” This spat from the thief as he sits up, jerking his shirt together to cover himself. He was flushed with strain before, but now his cheeks burn with anger and humiliation. “My eyes are on my face, you pervert.”

Alfred reels at the injustice. “Hey! I just saved your life. You could’ve suffocated just now.”

“Oh, please.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “I would have passed out for a while at worst. Everyone knows your breath evens out when you’re unconscious. I wouldn’t have died at all.”

“Well, somebody could have come across you,” says Alfred, indignant. “Found you defenseless, decided to take advantage.”

Now Arthur arches a thick eyebrow, eyelids lowering smugly. “You’re not from around here, I take it.”

“No.” His accent should have been the first hint. He has yet to meet a fellow American in Belfaux (and he won’t, outside of the casinos). He takes a steadying breath. “I’m—”

“Agent Alfred Jones,” says Arthur. “But go on with the cover story. I like fairy tales.”

Alfred stares, agape, then groans. He forgot, in the excitement of the chase, his emptied pocket.

Arthur holds up his wallet, pinched between two deft fingers, and smirks. “Have times gotten so drastic that this city is calling in Yanks to fight crime?”

“That’s right,” agrees Alfred. “And you’re to blame.”

“Oh, thank you for that honor. Shame I didn’t prepare a speech.”

 _Great. I get a smarmy, sarcastic Brit. With boobs._ Still, it’s less stressful than antsy, often unpredictably violent Jersey mob guys. Alfred’s cover has been blown before it even began, and yet he’s somehow enjoying this interaction. He isn’t freaking out—cool under pressure, as his director would say—and, without need for consideration, his Plan B crystallizes.

“I’m not going to arrest you,” begins Alfred.

“I should think not. Your jurisdiction is across the Atlantic.”

Alfred’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “My jurisdiction is wherever I’m hired to work. I’m not a police officer. I work for a private agency. We specialize in undercover work.”

Arthur’s eyes are narrowed now, humorless. Calculating. Waiting.

“I’m going to go undercover to infiltrate the criminal scene of Belfaux. I’m going to put a stop to Antonio and Gilbert, and anyone else who breaks the law.”

“Aren’t you the white knight,” mutters Arthur.

“And you’re going to help me,” finishes Alfred, smiling.

A single _ha!_ of amusement escapes the Englishman as he buttons up his shirt. “You and I have very different opinions about that.” He fingers a buttonless hole, scowling. “Ripped my buttons right off, you savage.”

“You’re going to help me,” says Alfred easily, “or you’re going to jail for stealing my wallet, and—” He picks up the waistcoat, starts to shake it.

Arthur reaches out, in vain. “There’s really no need . . .” He falls silent, watching a stream of rings, bracelets, coin purses, and watches drop with a tinny jangle onto the asphalt below.

Alfred gives him a look of mixed incredulity and exasperation best summed up with: _Seriously?_

Arthur stands, snatches his waistcoat, and buttons it up with a mutinous glare in the American’s direction. “I suppose I’ll have to help you,” he says. “Since you were kind enough to _blackmail_ me into it.”

Alfred shrugs, smile widening. He normally loves annoying criminals, but something about this one is particularly entertaining. “If you wanted to be treated fairly, you should have followed the rules.”

Arthur squints at him, then scoffs. “You’re even stupider than you look.” He brushes grit off his hat and sets it back on his head. Grudgingly, he asks, “So what happens now?”

“Now you take me to meet Gilbert and Antonio, and whoever else is important in the criminal world of Belfaux.”

Arthur picks up the pile of stolen valuables, returning them to his pockets along with the wasted bandages. _Stupid, stupid._ He knew he bound too tight this morning. If he’d taken two minutes to fix it, he wouldn’t be in this godawful mess. “I’m not going to hold your hand,” he warns the American, “but for Christ’s sake, stop saying _criminal._ We’re cons.”

Alfred blinks. “Oh. Cons? Huh. Thanks.”

Arthur shows him his teeth, but not in a smile.

The pair of them, thief and mole, leave the alley side-by-side, both thinking the same thing: _Well . . . t_ _his is going to be interesting._


	2. Chapter 2

**_1 9 2 2_ **

 

The bustling Market Square, the aorta of midtown’s bought-and-sold heart, is a place that practically crackles with Fate. Five years before Alfred and Arthur leave on that drizzly morning, our thief enters the market—not yet Arthur, not yet even a thief in the occupational sense, only Kirkland. It is a morning he remembers in silver, gold, and red.

Silver for the sky above, overcast but not dark enough for rain. It gave the streets an eerie light, seemingly lit from nowhere. Someone had gone around before dawn and hung up sheets of mist in the air. A stray terrier lingered at the edge of the market, hoping for scraps, and continually shook his wiry coat. (Most dogs in Belfaux don’t bother. The rain is a fact of life. If you go outside, you will be wet.)

Gold for the magician’s hair. Kirkland had been drawn to the market by the calls of the hawkers, intending to steal some food when the vendors had a moment of distraction. But he was distracted himself, by a small crowd gathered round something, clapping and exclaiming at intervals. Kirkland hugged himself and shyly slid through the audience until he could see the man, the magician. Flowing mane of hair, beautiful suit and cloak—but Kirkland was most entranced by his hands. Fine fingers, caressing the air, bringing to mind words like _finesse_ and _panache_. (They are French fingers, after all.)

Red for the rose, bloomed from thin air by the magician and offered to a pretty lady in the audience. Everyone looked over at her, and Kirkland’s gaze happened to land instead on the handbag of the woman standing beside him. Unclasped, the coin purse in plain sight. Just _begging_ him.

Distraction only lasts a moment. But this magician was like a built-in diversion.

And so, while the magician showed off with his cards and double-faced coins, weighted dice and break-away rings, Kirkland moved among the crowd, head down, waiting for the moment of _wow!_ during the trick to plunge his hand into coat pockets and bags. He robbed six people before the magician said some French things and everyone broke into applause. He quickly joined in, even smiling a little when the magician bent at the waist in a bow far grander than this grungy place deserved. Then people began putting tips into the magician’s upturned hat, and the inevitable: _Someone took my wallet!_ Said in French, of course, but Kirkland didn’t need a translation. Heart pounding, he murmured sympathetically as others were doing. _Don’t run. Guilty men run._ Everything in his body screamed to bolt, and the only thing keeping him in place was actually his terror. _Thieves run._

The other five victims cried out at their lost funds. It didn’t take long for accusations to fly, and they went straight to Kirkland, who didn’t look entirely reputable with his oversized clothing, hollow cheeks, scraggly hair. They swarmed him, unbroken strings of French wrapping around him like barbed wire. He was about to throw himself on their mercy, but a familiar voice behind him brought silence.

In French, the magician said, “It wasn’t my dear cousin, friends, please stop frightening her. The thief will be running, you must go to the police now, as quickly as possible.”

The women sighed and the men swore, but they left, knowing full well the police would be unable to help them. (Such is life in Belfaux.)

Wide-eyed, Kirkland looked up at the magician, unable to get out his words of gratitude.

Francis Bonnefoy, in English, said, “I’ll take half for that.”

“W-What?”

Francis held out a magic hand. “Half of the money you just stole from those people I steered _and_ stalled for you.”

Kirkland could barely think past his surprise. “Y-Yer a . . . thief?”

“Voleur gentilhomme,” corrected Francis grandly. “Gentleman thief.”

Kirkland didn’t know what that was, but he liked the sound of it. He started to glance around, but Francis snapped, “Arrête! Looking around draws attention. Just give me three wallets, I’m not waiting for un goddamn to count.”

He bristled as he slipped the wallets to Francis. “I’m good at sums, for yer information.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “But not so good at cutting hair. It is a disgrace, Mademoiselle.”

Kirkland ducked his head, glaring. He’d done the cutting himself, with rusty scissors, but he didn’t think it was _that_ bad. He tried to lower his voice, but it just sounded daft to his ears. “I en’t a girl.”

Francis studied him a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He gathered his magic props up into the inner pockets of his coat but when he went to walk away, the not-a-girl blocked his path. “What do you want now?”

“Let’s work together,” said Kirkland, voice shaking as he catapulted himself out of his comfort zone. _Courage. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain._ Besides, this seemed like a pretty wizard idea, in his humble opinion. “You steer and stall, I’ll wire.”

“Au revoir.” Francis stepped around him, striding out of the market.

Kirkland hurried to match his pace. “You didn’t even think about it! Come on. It would work—”

“Oui, it would have,” snapped Francis, rounding on Kirkland, “if you had not gotten caught today. Who will watch me now? Gossip is a disease in this city. It only takes one idiot, and everywhere gets infected.”

Kirkland shrank back, then followed the Frenchman more meekly. “Well, if yer so upset about it, why’d you cover for me? You said sumfink and they left me alone.”

Francis hesitated, just for a second. “Bad luck, you know,” he said haughtily. “Cons do not, how do you say, snitch.”

Again Kirkland moved in front of him. _Do whatever you have to do to survive._ “Please. I’m begging—”

“Oui, you look like a beggar.”

Kirkland ignored that, because it was true. “Please. Work with me.”

Francis scoffed. “I saw how you stole. I would not be working _with_ you, I would be mentoring you. Your technique is amateur.”

“It is _not_ —” When Francis’s eyes narrowed, Kirkland quickly held up his hands. “Alright, then, mentor me.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“Well, money.”

“That’s all?”

“Er . . . companionship?”

“From un Anglais?” Francis laughed. “What treasure.”

Kirkland crossed his arms over his chest. “Match made in hell, innit.”

Francis regarded the peculiar creature before him. Of course, he could not help but see himself in this passionately misguided adolescent. He felt an innate obligation there, but he also did not want to break his first rule, which could be roughly translated into _I have myself, fuck everyone else._ He weighed those two devils and offered a compromise.

“If you can keep up,” he said, “I will mentor you. If you cannot, I never want to see you again.”

Kirkland brightened, offering a hand. A small, delicate hand. “Deal.”

Francis was already gone, running across the street in front of traffic, into the winding maze of back alleys and passages. Kirkland dashed after him, trying his damnedest to stay just behind him even as the path grew convoluted and water collected on his eyelashes.

Familiar, non?

Despite Kirkland’s hunger—and gaunt body—he didn’t lose the Frenchman. He actually kept quite hard on the trail, only lagging out of shock when Francis launched himself at a chain link fence spanning the alley. It was almost twice Kirkland’s height, and though he didn’t fear falling, he _did_ fear the chained hound currently barking its head off near a back door.

“We’re trespassing!” he hissed, standing in front of the fence.

“Technically,” said Francis, dropping down neatly on the other side, “you’re trespassing.”

The dog strained at its lead, barking and snapping, likely half-mad from lying out in the drip all day long. Kirkland wasted a moment trying to quiet the beast, then gave up and began his ascent. He quickly learned that Francis’s momentum had been a key component, because the metal cut into his fingers and his feet slipped out of their tenuous holds and his biceps threatened to tear in half.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, when he had just reached the top, the back door banged open. He couldn’t see, but he heard: the slam of wood on brick, the hound in a frenzy, and the distinct click of a gun safety.

Francis clambered up the fence and grabbed Kirkland.

_BOOM._

They fell in a heap, but before Kirkland could even come to his senses, Francis was hauling him to his feet and running. Angry French was shouted behind them, but no more shots came. Kirkland stumbled after Francis, wrist still clamped firmly in the other thief’s grip.

“Putain,” muttered Francis. Then, louder, “I _told_ you, if you cannot keep up!”

Kirkland bit back his protests of being tricked, and instead asked innocently, “Why’d you save me?”

Francis slowed to a walk, looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

Kirkland squinted back at him.

Francis finally heaved a sigh of defeat. “Merde. _Fine,_ I’ll mentor you, even though I’ll probably regret it. But, before we begin. Are you a man?”

 _Here we go._ Kirkland stood up straighter, trying to seem as tall and masculine as possible. “Yes.”

“Physically?”

He wilted slightly. “. . . No.”

“I see.” Francis rubbed his stubbled jaw thoughtfully. He’d heard of men dressing up as women—Feliciano was sometimes asked to wear skirts and lingerie by his macs, but he wasn’t a full-blown nance—so he supposed it wasn’t so strange the other way around. “All the same, I won’t go around with you like that.”

Kirkland’s eyes darkened, clouding with hurt. He turned to walk away.

Almost too late, Francis realized his mistake. “Non! Wait. You misunderstand.” He held the Englishman’s thin shoulder. “I mean, because you are a mess. You need a bath. And your hair, mon Dieu.” He gently touched a jagged lock and was surprised by how soft it was. “I will try to save it.”

Kirkland attempted a smile, but it broke on his lips.

“Come,” said Francis decisively. “Let’s see if I remember how to be generous.”

 

Which was how our English thief-to-be found himself up to his nose in bubbles, cozy in the small but not unpleasant bathroom of Francis Bonnefoy’s flat. (The building itself is near the English shore, so the majority is in a state of disrepair, but Francis has a pocket of loveliness to call home.) The Frenchman threw out Kirkland’s clothes as soon as he was out of them. _Filthy and ugly. I’ll find you something while you bathe. Don’t forget to wash your hair._

 _Yes, Mum,_ Kirkland felt like saying, but he didn’t. He’d never called someone Mum before; it was just him and his father, and then it was just him. _That’s alright._ He was making it on his own, was he not? He was an apprentice, that was more than you could say for a lot of people. _I’m alright._

Kirkland shampooed his hair, let himself sink under the water to rinse. How long could he hold his breath? He came up spluttering. Not long, apparently.

_Enough stalling._

He pulled the chain on the little brass plug, rose out of the water, and caught his reflection in the big mirror. Thin as a twig, red from the steaming water, nipples already hardening in the cooler air. _I hate you,_ he thought at them. _Breasts._ Such an ugly word for the fleshy, wobbly things puberty slapped onto his chest. Why did his nipples have to be so big? Did no one tell them he wouldn’t be having children? Did they not get the memo that they’d been made redundant? He put his hands over them, digging his nails in until he risked breaking the skin. _Get off of me. No one asked you to be here._ He looked down at the tiny dents he’d left, the angry skin around them. _Yes,_ he thought. _That’s how I feel, too._

Suddenly the door opened. He nearly jumped out of his skin, one arm instinctively covering his chest, the other flying between his legs. “Get out of here! I’m naked!”

Francis laughed. “I see that.” Without a care in the world, he took a peach-colored towel from a cabinet and wrapped it around the Englishman. “You Brits are so uptight. Learn to relax, oui?”

Kirkland could not physically get any redder. “W-We just met. You en’t supposed to see me without clothes! Bloody hell—I can dry myself!”

“Suit yourself.” Francis reached into a small medicine chest, withdrew a roll of bandage. “Lower the towel.”

“No!”

Francis rolled his eyes. “Listen. If you cannot do what I tell you, you might as well leave right now.”

Kirkland opened his mouth, then closed it, mumbling, “What are you going to do?”

The gentleman thief heard the fear in that meek question, and the smile he gave was the kindest that had graced his lips in a decade. “I am going to help you.”

_A little girl curled up on the sofa, waiting for help that never came._

Kirkland felt the strange but certain sensation of tears welling—not in his eyes, but in his heart. They burned his throat in a way that he knew would make his voice shake, so he said nothing. Just stood still, gaze and towel lowered, as Francis carefully wrapped the bandages around his chest, over his breasts. “Breathe normally,” murmured the Frenchman. “Tell me if it is too tight.” When he finished Kirkland looked in the mirror again. He turned to the side; in profile, there was no comparison. His chest looked flat. It felt squished and kind of uncomfortable, but it looked flat. _Finally._

Francis helped him dress, holding up a lilac dress shirt for him to slip his arms into. Kirkland would have assured him he could dress independently, but Francis was clearly enjoying himself, and Kirkland would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, as well. The clothes were slightly too big—and purple really wasn’t his color—but they _felt_ good. Masculine, at last.

“Now. Your hair.” Francis put the toilet cover down and sat the Englishman down on it, finger-combed his hair a bit, then set to work with small but sharp blades. “I expect you to buy me a very nice bottle of wine as payment for this.”

“Stolen wine tastes better,” remarked Kirkland, and felt heartened by Francis’s laughter, because he’d never drunk alcohol in his life but didn’t want to seem like a child.

The haircut was quicker than he expected. After a few minutes, Francis stepped back with a magician’s flourish. “There you go. Stand and see. Better, non?”

He could hardly believe his eyes. The man in the mirror—the man, the man, _the man_ —was not anyone he had ever seen before, but he was happy to make his acquaintance. “You gave me bangs,” was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

Francis stood beside him, considering their reflections. “You can always slick them back. Also, you can thank me anytime.”

“Thank you,” said Kirkland emphatically. “I . . . I can’t thank you enough. Really.”

Francis flapped a hand. “You will repay me eventually.” He lifted his chin, blond waves of hair flowing back like a golden waterfall, and smiled at the pair in the mirror. “Francis Bonnefoy, and . . .” He was waiting, expecting.

“I en’t got a name,” he admitted, with a mite of shame. “Not a man’s name.”

“No name?” Francis scratched at his jaw. “A name for an Englishman . . . Hmmm . . . I assume you know the story of King Arthur.”

“Uh . . . no?”

“Really?”

“Never heard of him.”

Francis spared a thought for the stereotype of the snaggletoothed illiterate tramps clinging to the English Shore. Perhaps clichés are based in reality, after all. “Well, he wasn’t very interesting. But you rather look like un Arthur.”

He pursed his lips, uncertain. “Ar-ter?”

Francis glanced toward the ceiling. “Your gutter accent would say it, ahem.” He summoned his stage persona, necessary for performances big and small. “Aw-fah. Because you cannot grasp the _thhhh_ sound.”

Indignance sparked in those green eyes.

“But,” continued Francis, “you will soon learn to speak in a more . . . _posh_ way.”

“Posh,” he echoed, bemused. “What, like: _Ta, daaahling, I’m off to the polo match, bring round the car._ ”

“It’s _bring the car round_ ,” corrected Francis, stifling a grin. “But oui, something like that. People will be easier to manipulate if you speak that way. Besides, no Shore Brit would be this well-dressed, so you will stick out if your accent doesn’t match.” Francis turned to their reflections, getting back into the swing of things. “Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland.”

“Gentlemen thieves?” asked the Englishman, hopeful.

“Ha. Not yet. Not even close.”

 

Francis taught him nothing related to crime for the first month; instead, he brought him to plays. Beautiful theaters, massive crimson curtains, a sloped sea of seats, lamplit boxes above where the rich smoked and smooched away from prying eyes. Ambition and ego buzzed in the air, thick as the tobacco fug. _Anyone can be anything,_ whispered the stage. _You are just the face you wear._

Most of the plays were in French, and from these he learned the posture of gentry, and more importantly, of an actor: how to walk with endless confidence, how to look right through someone you thought lesser, how to hold yourself with utmost dignity. To be noble, you had to appear noble, no matter what situation you found yourself in. To his surprise, and delight, he learned there were many others like him; even if it was just for the stage, it was wonderful to see painted men in dresses, women with beards drawn on with grease pencil. _Most things in this world,_ Francis told him again and again, _most things are just a show._

Kirkland learned something else during those plays, something unintended. _Why do you want to be a magician?_ he had asked Francis the first day, and Francis’s response had been, enigmatically: _I don’t._ No matter how much Kirkland pressed, the Frenchman would not explain himself, instead snapping at him, cutting with snide barbs not sharp enough to draw blood but still painful because Kirkland lacked the skill to riposte. But now, sitting beside him in a dim theater, watching Francis in the corner of his eye: here is where he learned the secret he would not be told until a year later. Francis Bonnefoy, gentleman thief and con man, wanted to be a performer. (A singer, a magician, an actor—Francis didn’t care, he would later tell Kirkland. The stage, the spotlight, those were his friends, but his lover—that was the applause.) The yearning on the Frenchman’s face when those curtains slid apart—a blind man could see that he wished to be the one in the spotlight. _Every con man is an actor,_ he claimed. _We play a part, and our audience pays us. They just don’t realize it until later._

Still, the best lesson came when they saw English plays. He couldn’t take his eyes off the actors playing aristocrats, noses always in the air, chests puffed out like collies, black boots shining with polish, gold buttons blinding where they caught the spotlights. So handsome, even the ones with big noses or patchy whiskers. They wore their skin as if it was gilt, and they sparkled because even the light was fooled. And their words, their _words_! Consonants crisp as ice, vowels flowing like water. It was like a whole other language. _This is their song and dance,_ whispered Francis as the players sashayed across the stage. _You must learn all the steps, know all the_ _words. You must transform yourself._

So, he did.

Over that first month, he traded in the dialect of the English Shore rabble for the respectable, refined drawl of a moneyed gentleman. He no longer flinched away from people on the street, fearful of their judgmental gazes; instead, he kept his head high and faced the world with an infrangible smile, greeting perfect strangers and overpowering them with suffocating politeness. Francis bought him the uniform of a dandy: a three-piece suit with a double albert chain, a pocket watch on the right and a sovereign case on the left, and a teardrop of lapis lazuli dangling on the fob. _Your harnais,_ said Francis, laughing. _You almost look handsome._

And, looking in the bathroom mirror after that first month ran out, he actually agreed. He cleared his throat, lifted his chin. He’d been practising a lower voice, and he’d nearly perfected it. Anything—a friendly smile, a confident stride, an innocent face—can be put on, like a mask. Like a show. “Good day, sir or madam. My name is Arthur Kirkland. A pleasure.” He looked himself up and down, searching for dysphoria and finding—none. “Arthur,” he said.

And he smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

_**1 9 2 7** _

**ROOK STREET**

Déjà vu. The flat on Rook Street, near the English Shore (as if that wasn’t obvious by the dilapidated exterior, the gaping pot holes in the road, the cursing Brits, the English name, etc.), is not an unfamiliar place to Alfred Jones. He hasn’t been to this specific place before, but the _type_ of building, certainly. There are plenty of so-called _low-income housing units_ in the cities he frequents back home. Slums, in truth, places the government can’t or won’t fund to fix. A blessing and a curse—the places are unappealing and unsafe, but where would those people living in them go if they had to pay more? As they walk down Rook Street, Arthur tells him some of the buildings are abandoned, full of squatters. “The saddest sods are the tourists,” says the thief, without seeming sad about it at all, “they get lost in the casinos and the women and the drinking, and they wind up unable to pay the fare home. Some get bailed out by family and friends. Most do. But a handful get trapped here on the island. They all drift westward eventually. Got to keep dry somewhere.”

Alfred says nothing, in part lost in thoughtful sympathy for those unsupported people, but also vaguely hypnotized by Arthur Kirkland’s voice. It rises and falls as though he’s reading from a lively novella, and his accent is oddly satisfying. Each word slides up the throat, turns over on the tongue, and slips efficiently out the mouth. The comparison to a printing press is not misplaced; on the drizzly journey from Market Square to Rook Street, Arthur has barely stopped talking. Alfred enjoys it; normally he’s the one people call a motormouth, so this is a nice switch-up. And the things Arthur says are mildly informative to the case, without the thief realizing. Even unintended help is appreciated. Arthur shows him the invisible line that marks the start of Gilbert Beilschmidt’s turf, just one street away from Market Square. “True Nachtadler territory doesn’t start for another two streets,” admits Arthur. “But you might as well say Gilbert controls half the island.”

“The non-French half,” says Alfred. “The con half.”

“Ha. Don’t hang a halo over every frog you find,” says Arthur as they climb the rickety staircase within the building. Someone is playing jazz in the basement; it’s trumpets thick like taffy, tuba like molasses, music you can feel oozing over your skin. Alfred hasn’t danced seriously since high school, but music like this makes him want to take it up again. _Someday,_ he promises himself. _Someday you won’t be too busy to be yourself._

Introspection puts a bad taste in his mouth.

“Wait,” says Alfred as Arthur’s hand finds a worn doorknob. “Who am I meeting?”

Arthur just smirks to remind Alfred of his words— _I’m not going to hold your hand_ —and pushes the door open. “Le matin has expired,” he says, sweeping into the flat and raising his voice to address someone not readily present. “I hope you don’t have a woman in there. We have a _guest_.”

Alfred regrets not forcing Arthur to keep him safe—as safe as he can—but then again, that’s pretty lazy. So long as Arthur keeps the investigation a secret, if Alfred does his job, no one will find out. Lack of protection just keeps him on his toes, like he should always be. _Game face on, Jones._

The flat reminds him of his grandmother’s living room, old-fashioned but cozy. The modern places he’s seen in the States are all about solid pastels and plaid curtains or faux-wood blinds but never both. This place has a faded red rocking chair, dark brown couch and loveseat with ovular lace thrown over their tops, a lampshade with amber tassels like epaulettes, a pot of orchids, a copper bucket near the door holding three umbrellas and two fashionable walking sticks. There are some peculiar things, as well—mysterious parcels wrapped in newspaper in the corner, an empty bird cage hanging near a window, and the cluttered coffee table is a whole planet of miscellaneous oddity. A clay ashtray cleverly shaped to fit between the spread legs of an expressionless clay woman, whom the sculptor has forced to hold a clay cigarette just in front of her lips for all eternity. Next to this, predictably, a pack of matches. Some teacups ringed with residue, left waiting patiently on their saucers. A pair of balled-up tissues (a cold, Alfred hopes). A ravished envelope and folded letter. A brown, crumbly object that Alfred thinks may once have attempted to be a scone. And, finally, not one—not two—but _three_ decks of playing cards.

Alfred quirks an eyebrow at Arthur. “Gamblin’ man?”

Arthur mirrors his expression. “Isn’t everyone?”

Alfred’s attempt to develop a philosophical response is cut short by the entrance of a long-haired Frenchman. The stranger is wearing a dressing gown in precisely the shade of purple of the geraniums Alfred’s mother keeps on the kitchen windowsill. It leaves a fair amount of hairy chest and hairy legs on display. Alfred finds himself relieved that the man is wearing fluffy slippers. Any more skin showing would feel indecent—on Alfred’s behalf, somehow.

“Who,” asks the Frenchman, his sleepy gaze laving Alfred before shifting to Arthur, “is this?”

Alfred opens his mouth to give his cover story—a fellow criminal (con) who hopped across the pond to make some quick money—but Arthur is already speaking. “Alfred Jones. Old muckmate I knew from the Shore.” The thief isn’t even looking at either of them; he’s inspecting the rings he stole in the market. “Jones, this is Francis Bonnefoy. Do tell him you’ve never heard the name, he adores hearing that.”

Francis makes a colorful remark about Arthur in French, but there’s undeniably present hope in his eyes. “Well? Have you heard of me?”

Alfred shakes his head. They can’t see it, but he’s just shouldered on his façade. Out steps the respectful, censored Agent Jones. In swaggers the brash, eager Alfred. “Can’t say I have.”

Francis’s face closes off. “Well, I have never heard of you, either.” He lifts a hand, wrist limp. “What is this you drag home to me, Arthur? You were supposed to bring breakfast, not an American.”

“I was interrupted while fetching funds for breakfast.” Arthur pulls his lips back and bites down carefully on the jewel of a ring, then scowls. “People and their synthetic riches.” He tosses the ring onto the coffee table—it lands in a teacup with a clink—and gives Francis a withering glance. “And stuff the suspicion. Really, Bonnefoy. As if I know every one of your deep, dark secrets. We might talk a lot, but you know we tell each other nothing.”

The Frenchman rolls his eyes. “I taught you to change the subject better than that. Would you like to have a lovers’ quarrel? Mon cœur malade, come back to bed.”

Arthur scoffs, shaking the contents of a stolen coin purse into his palm. He counts them with a cursory glance, slips them back inside. “I’ll get you some pain aux raisins so your mouth can have something productive to do.”

Francis waves a disinterested hand at him, already turning away to walk to the kitchenette.

Arthur pivots to walk out the door, but Alfred catches his arm. “You’re leaving me here?” He says it with exasperation, not fear, even though there’s a hint of anxiety prickling the pit of his stomach.

The Englishman tenses like he’s about to wrench his arm away, but instead he slowly pries Alfred’s fingers off his elbow and says primly, “Yes, darling, I’m going away now. If you insist on following me about like an unwanted puppy, I’ll have you put down.” His smile is brief but unnervingly forced, lips pulled too tightly to show too many teeth. “Sit and stay, like a good little cur, and I’ll bring _you_ some pain au chocolat.”

Alfred steps back, because Arthur does have a point hidden somewhere in there; it doesn’t give the impression of a rough-and-tumble Yankee criminal (con, damn it) to cling to a man for no apparent reason. _I should thank him,_ he thinks. _Making me some childhood friend was genius._ But he can’t do it now, so he just says, “Hey, chocolate’s poison to dogs, y’know.”

Arthur’s smile falls away so fast and so completely it’s difficult to recall if it was ever there in the first place. “Precisely.” And with that, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Almost immediately, Francis is talking. “So you are here for a job, is that it?”

Alfred wanders closer to the kitchenette, watching Francis fill a kettle with water. “Yessir.”

The Frenchman snorts at that. “You Americans are so polite, until you’re not.” He leaves the kettle to warm and turns to Alfred, hip leant against the counter. “Do you cannon?”

_What the hell does that mean?_

“Yeah,” says Alfred, before the pause can stretch suspiciously long. “Yeah, I used to, back in the day. Guess I’ll be rusty by now.”

Francis doesn’t look away from him, one eyebrow set higher than the other. “Rusty.”

“Yeah.” Alfred wants so badly to put his hands in his pockets, but he knows the basics of lying. _Don’t fidget. Don’t scratch. Don’t look all around the room. If they stare, stare back._ He leans his own hip on the counter and meets the Frenchman’s gaze. “Used to run with a few gangs, back home. Spent some time with the mob. I know how to use a gun.”

Francis crosses his arms over his chest. “We don’t do armed robbery. If you want to work with a gun, and get your handsome face beaten off of you, talk to Gilbert.”

Alfred shakes his head, remembering Roderich’s insistence that he not try to go directly against Gilbert. “No, I spent enough time being a goon. I’m interested in finer work.”

“Finer work?” Francis grasps Alfred’s wrist, holds up his own hand beside it for comparison. “Do you think I’m blind? You don’t have the fingers for fine work.”

It’s true. Next to Francis’s long thin fingers, Alfred’s look tanned, calloused, scarred in places, fingers thick and knuckles clunky. Hands for punching, shooting guns, repairing fences, hauling rope. To Alfred’s shock, they remind him of his father’s hands, if a bit smaller and much lighter. If he was still a farmer, his hands would be stained brown by now, the lines full of dirt an hour’s scrubbing couldn’t clear away. A hard day’s work. When’s the last time he did that?

“I can still—” starts Alfred.

“Don’t waste my time.” Francis opens the cupboard, reaches for two teacups, but one tips over the edge of the shelf before he can properly grip it. Down it plummets, a second to impact—

Alfred snatches it out of the air.

Francis had been cringing, bracing for the crash of porcelain against formica, but now he straightens and looks at Alfred, eyes narrowed.

Alfred offers the cup. It fits perfectly in the palm of his big, strong, unsuited-for-fine-work hand.

Francis continues to stare. Appraising.

Between them, the kettle begins to wail.

The Frenchman takes the cup, sets a teabag in it, and drowns it in steaming water. He does the same to a second cup, then turns to fetch milk from the icebox. “If you prove useful, we will use you. If not, Gilbert might take you. If not again, well.” He smirks. “I’m sure Toni can clean you up. I know men who would take you.”

Alfred pictures hirsute guys in heavy trench coats with beady eyes and salty stains on their trousers. That’s what the men who linger around public bathrooms look like. Sex between men is illegal, in the States. Alfred doesn’t really understand why; if there’s consent, it seems irrelevant to the law. France agrees with his opinion, and Belfaux is the same, but not when money is involved. Prostitution, no matter who does it, is illegal in this city. _Thank God I’m not undercover in that brothel._

Alfred reaches for the nearest cup after Francis pours milk in, but the Frenchman’s laughter stops him. “Do not touch that, unless you have a death wish.”

Is this a test? If he was dealing with mobsters, he wouldn’t dare go against their warnings. But these are thieves—nonviolent ones, if they’re to be believed—so perhaps the rules are different. And he’s laughing, so . . . Alfred picks up the teacup, but the door of the flat opens before he can sip.

Arthur walks over, a small paper bag in his hand, and observes Alfred. “Is the American drinking my tea?”

Francis takes the bag, removes a swirl of raisin-spotted bread. “He’s about to, it seems.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Does he have a death wish?”

Francis takes his pain aux raisins and his tea, abandoning them in the kitchenette. “That would be the question, oui.”

Alfred holds out the cup with an apologetic smile. “My mistake.”

The thief accepts his tea and is still scrutinizing it for invisible American plagues when Francis says from the sofa, “Monsieur Jones tells me he is a rusty cannon.”

Arthur glares accusingly at Alfred, but his tone is light. “Really? He’s been holding out on me. Last I heard, he was only a duke.”

Alfred parts his lips, uncertain if he’s expected to speak, almost awed by how seamlessly the Englishman can spin this tale.

“He wants a job,” says Francis, bread in his mouth. “And since you vouch for him, you can train off his rust.”

Arthur glowers over his teacup with such hatred Alfred is surprised the liquid inside doesn’t boil. “Sorry, remind me when being _partners_ meant one person bossing the other around?”

Francis hangs an arm over the back of the sofa, turning to regard Arthur with heavy lidded but intense eyes. “At the exact moment madness possessed me to take in an orphan from le Rive Anglaise. That is when.”

Alfred watches Arthur closely. It’s difficult to see—impossible, for someone unused to studying the way faces show emotion—but there’s a quick flash of sadness in the droop of his head, guilt in the pull of his brow, anger tightening his mouth. Then all that is gone, a mask of irritated resignation slipping neatly over the lot of it.

“Fine,” he says, with a sip of tea. “Do you suppose you’ll get dressed today? They _are_ still expecting us at the wharf, are they not?”

“Oui, as far as I know.” Francis rises with a sigh, followed by a luxurious stretch that proves his abdomen to be a bit less furry than his chest. “But not so early. Perhaps we will treat Toni to lunch.”

“ _He_ should be treating _us_ ,” remarks Arthur. “I’d like to know what money we’re expected to pay for it with.”

Francis shrugs, finger-combing his hair as he disappears into the bathroom. Muffled by the door, he replies, “There is always someone willing to pay. Even if they don’t know about it.”

Arthur whirls on Alfred as soon as the door closes. “What in hell were you thinking?” he hisses under his breath. “Do you even know what cannon means?”

“Uh . . .” Alfred’s mind lags, jarred by switching in and out of honesty so abruptly.

The thief rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t.” He shakes his head, gaze on the window’s rain-streaked glass. “I shouldn’t have gotten you anything. You’re not worth the tuppence.”

Alfred picks up the discarded bag on the counter. “You got me chocolate?” he asks, grinning.

Arthur seems almost caught off guard by the brightness of the smile. “Pain au chocolat,” he corrects. “If you’re going to work here, you really ought to learn French.”

Alfred bites into the sweet roll. “Mmm!” The perfect, airy texture gives way beautifully to the sharp, smoky dark chocolate at its center, still warm. “Thanks, Arthur, this is really good.” He savors another bite with his eyes closed—he’s heard French baking is excellent, but he didn’t realize it would be like an art piece in his mouth—then opens them and teases, “You’ll have to teach me some French.”

The Englishman hides his smile, faint but existent, behind his teacup. “Bête.”

“You bet? Or is that French? What’s it mean?”

“Just another word for American.” Arthur sips his tea to stifle his amusement.

Alfred tilts his head, making his strand of stick-up hair bounce. “Are you messing with me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Alfred laughs, and it’s the sort of laugh Arthur would normally think was fake, because it’s loud and comes so quick. But he can tell it’s real, because of the spark in Alfred’s bright blue eyes, the crinkles in the corners, the dimple in his left cheek. _Alright, he’s attractive. Look, but don’t touch._ There’s a club downtown where Arthur could go and see a blond, freckled boy dance around a pole wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and leather boots. _That is safe,_ he thinks. _Lies are always safe._

Truth is where things get dangerous.

Alfred’s face has fallen back to something more serious now. “So . . . are you two having money trouble?”

It’s a loaded way he says _you two._ Arthur and Francis are not you two, except when they are. Never, ever simple. Very few things about survival are simple, in the human world. Animals have it easy, without morals and birth control. What choice does a walrus make? (Arthur saw an ink sketch of a walrus in a north-wear shop once, a place full of furs and sheathed knives. When he told Francis about it, the Frenchman snorted. _There, when you feel ugly, just think: you could look like a walrus._ Not the most effective way to ward off dysphoria, as it turns out.)

“You shouldn’t have to ask,” says Arthur, keeping pesky emotions away from his voice. “We wouldn’t be stealing if we had money already. We aren’t politicians.”

Alfred doesn’t smile. “But if you’re so famous for theft, why don’t you have any money saved? Is it drinking?”

Arthur’s chest—still unbound, beneath his shirt and waistcoat—swells as he takes a deep breath. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know enough cons who drink their money away. My lack of funds has nothing to do with alcohol, thank you _very_  much.”

Alfred holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Sorry I asked.”

“Good. I’m glad you’ve learned your lesson.”

A clatter from the bathroom. Out comes Francis Bonnefoy, dressed almost identical to Arthur, except his colors are plum and gold where Arthur’s are brown and grey. Francis puts on a black fedora with a silk ribbon and asks Arthur, “Is this yours or mine?”

Arthur sets down his teacup. “It’s mine. Give one to Jones. I’ll be right back.”

He retreats to the bathroom. Three minutes later, he has bandages wrapped tightly but not too tightly, and the trio of blonds in black hats head out into the rain.

 

**ST. RAPHAELA’S**

There are a number of ways to get sex in Belfaux.

The old-fashioned way, of course: seducing someone in a bar, performing a mating dance at a club, convincing them to go back to yours or theirs and climb under the sheets before the alcohol can ruin the night. A tried but often untrue method. The chase may be the appeal for some, but for those who grow weary of unsuccessful hunts, there is another option.

Whores!

Of course, there are different places to find whores. Some hide in plain sight, dancing onstage for the usual fee and joining men in hotel rooms for extra. Some work downtown beats, always on the move because standing on one corner is an invitation to the few patrolling constables. It’s cheapest to pull one of the street molls down an alley and fuck against a wall, but the rain tends to make those affairs wet in an unappealing way, and besides, how is a man supposed to know what diseases he may be subjected to? The best place is also the most expensive, and the people of the English Shore have affectionately—and sacrilegiously—nicknamed it the church.

Off to pound a paid stranger into a feather mattress? Not at all: off to church. Off to pray. Off to confession. Off to connect spiritually with the angels of St. Raphaela’s. Amen, brothers. Amen.

The bordello is, if Antonio does say so himself, a beautiful building. He’s terribly proud of the design, despite its origins. He thinks the large church-style pews with plush cushions are clever. He thinks the stained glass windows showing angels in romantic embraces—naughty bits covered by white wings, of course—are more than worth the high price. And as for the portraits of all his real angels, hung along either side of the entrance hall so visitors can pick their preferred beauty on their way in?

“My favorite.” It’s a twofold statement, because he adores all the paintings, but there’s one he treasures above all the rest, and it’s this one he dusts now. The young man in the portrait doesn’t smile, but instead tips his head back, regarding the viewer haughtily. So gorgeous. Chocolate brown hair that Antonio knows firsthand is silky smooth, eyes the warm green of far-away tropics, olive skin that practically gives off heat even through the oils of the painting. Antonio lovingly caresses the glass of the frame with his cloth, smiling.

“If you keep cleaning that damn portrait, you’ll wear the glass away.”

Antonio turns to see the young man himself—slightly less young now—walking toward him. His smile spreads to a grin. “I want to be able to see you, cariño.”

Lovino steps beside him, regarding his portrait with a slightly curled lip. “Sometimes I think you love this stupid thing more than the real me.”

The Italian is wearing oxblood tights, velvet slippers, and a loose-fit black shirt that allows the tantalizing view of left shoulder, left collarbone, and the trio of freckles that lie between. Antonio wants to touch, to kiss, but he knows better. When sex is a job, it loses some of its magic. When Lovino wants him, he comes to him; when Lovino isn’t in the mood, Antonio should just quit while he’s ahead. And he does, almost always. But he can still admire the art.

Lovino’s beautiful eyes roll toward the ceiling. “You’re not listening.”

“Yes, I am.” Antonio shines the portrait’s gilt frame. “I love you. All of you. Everywhere.” He pushes too hard and knocks the painting off-center on its nail. “Agh, mierda.” He struggles to nudge the portrait back to a straight position, but the more precise he tries to make his hand movements, the shakier they get. Frustration burns his chest, his face. Just this one thing, one thing to be done by himself, just once.

Thin fingers rest lightly on his bronzed ones. “Let me,” says Lovino, tone completely different than before, driftwood to lamb’s ear in seconds. Antonio doesn’t look at the Italian’s face, because he knows he’ll find the same old devotion there, and it’s exactly like it was five years ago, when things were at their worst. No one has ever cared about him as much as Lovino Vargas does, and it makes him tear up every time he thinks about it.

Antonio waits for Lovino to adjust the painting, then takes that delicate, beautiful hand in his own scarred, quivering one and lifts it to his mouth for a chaste kiss. “Gracias, mi vida.”

Lovino stretches up to rest his lips against the shell of Antonio’s ear. “De nada.”

Antonio pauses, breath held, unwilling to frighten this increasingly rare creature away. _Sex?_

Lovino nibbles on his ear lobe.

 _Sex!_ Antonio goes for that bare shoulder like a drowning man to a lifesaver. He sucks on that honeyed skin, breathes in the perfume he and his brother both wear, like orchids and thyme. Lovino arches into him with a hiss of breath, and Antonio is so glad for the sincerity of it; it isn’t the exaggerated gasp of shocked pleasure he would give for a paying mac. He’s spent many nights wandering the halls of his bordello, listening to the over-the-top moans, the pounding of headboards, the slap of skin-on-skin. So much of it is—like everything, as Francis says—a show. Finding the flame of Lovino beneath his angelic mask was the most unexpected blessing Antonio has ever experienced. Just when he thought his luck had run out . . .

“My, my, I know this is a bawdy house, but I didn’t realize naughty things went on in the entrance hall at all hours.”

Lovino freezes. Antonio turns his head to see Arthur Kirkland, Francis Bonnefoy, and a startlingly handsome stranger walking in. Arthur and Francis wear matching smirks, and the third member of the blond brigade has a hand raised to touch the brim of his hat like he’s about to take it off. (Arthur notices and gives a sharp nudge to Alfred’s side. Down goes the hand.)

“Bonjour, Toni,” says Francis, amused. “Would you like us to come back in ten minutes?”

“Francis, be kind to him,” chides Arthur. “Fifteen minutes.”

Antonio and Lovino disentangle from each other. Lovino would be blushing angrily right now, but the fact that a joke has been made at Antonio’s expense has shifted the attention from him just enough that he doesn’t feel embarrassed. Antonio sometimes thinks of himself as a con man, until he remembers what Arthur and Francis are capable of. Wielders of words. Half of the time the things they do are so subtle, Antonio doesn’t even pick up on them until he considers them in retrospect.

“I’m sure we could go half an hour,” says Antonio, smiling at Lovino.

“I’ve gone longer than that.” Lovino rolls his eyes. “You should know that. It’s in your book.”

Antonio does his best to log the comings and goings—hilarity—of the visitors to his bordello, including some intimate details if they might enhance future visits. But, because of his hands, he usually gets one of the angels to do it. “I must have forgotten. Silly me.”

An American throat politely clears itself.

“Ah, yes. I suppose it falls upon me to address the room’s elephant.” Arthur gestures to the man standing between himself and Francis. “This is Alfred Jones. Fellow thief and bastard.”

Alfred feigns offense. “Hey. I’m not a bastard.”

“So sorry. Allow me to amend that.” Arthur clears his throat. “Fellow thief and liar.” He turns to Lovino before Alfred can protest again. “Good day to you, Mr. Vargas.”

The Italian crosses his arms over his chest, but the smirk remains. “Buongiorno.”

In a melding of French and Italian (not strictly uncommon in Belfaux), Arthur asks, “Où est tou fratello?”

Everyone in the hall grows slightly, slightly tense. It is the same feeling as when a lively dinner is abruptly interrupted by a controversial statement. Everyone leans back slightly, putting up a very thin but very there wall of defense. In this situation, in this bordello, everyone puts a wall around Alfred Jones. He is American, and Arthur has just used two languages to avoid saying something Alfred might understand. He has not earned trust.

Unbeknownst to them, Alfred puts up his own wall. He suspected Arthur would try to work against him. It’s a huge risk, putting his safety in the hands of this man—a man who, now that they’re in the thick of western Belfaux, he really has no leverage over. But he knows Arthur won’t rat, not yet. It would be stupid, and he’s too smart for that. _Arthur will try to get me scared,_ he thinks, _and then he’ll try to use me._

When dealing with con men, there’s one thing you can rely on: if a secret has even the slightest potential to be useful, that secret will be kept.

“Out getting chocolate,” says Antonio, in English because the walls are up now. “Or clothes, maybe. He’s been shopping a lot lately.”

Francis’s gaze cuts to Arthur, who simply nods and says, “Perhaps that’s a good thing. Good to get fresh air, anyway, if you can find a patch of it outside uptown.”

“ _I_ think it’s good,” remarks Lovino. “He’s not afraid of the city anymore.”

“I dunno,” says Alfred, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, “this city seems like something you should be afraid of.”

Francis scoffs. “Oui, for many people it is.”

Alfred quirks an eyebrow. “But not for us.”

Francis looks pointedly at Arthur, who says, “No, not for us. We are lucky enough to have the protection of the Nachtadlers, who won’t mind if we arrive early. Shall we go?”

Francis stares at Arthur. Arthur stares back.

“You are restless today,” remarks Francis.

“Mm, a bit out of sorts,” agrees Arthur. “I suspect it’s this old ghost coming back to haunt me.” He claps Alfred on the shoulder with the loud smack of a palm against leather. Nothing about his posture, face, or eyes is abnormal, and yet something about it feels off to Alfred.

 _He’s still shaken from getting caught._ The realization brings delight, followed quickly by guilt and sympathy. _He doesn’t seem an awful lot older than me. He’s just a little guy, he’s actually kinda cute . . ._

Arthur turns quickly away. “No further objections? Settled, then, we’re leaving. Stop staring at me, Jones, or I’ll have you. Don’t bother with a hat, Toni, your hair is supposed to look a mess. Off to the wharf with us, Mr. Vargas?”

Lovino shakes his head. “I’m booked.”

Translation: _I’m waiting for Feliciano._

Arthur stills for a moment. “Be kind to him.”

Translation: _Be kind to him._

Antonio gives Lovino a tender kiss on the cheek (which Lovino tolerates with a wrinkled nose). Then he fetches his trench coat from the cloakroom—bought specifically so he could tie the waist rather than fumble with buttons—and joins the journey to the Shore.

As the quartet walks, they each make plans about each other.

Antonio thinks: _I need to find out if Alfred can be trusted._

Francis thinks: _I need to find out what’s wrong with Arthur._

Alfred thinks: _I need to find out who’s in charge of these people._

And Arthur, not specific but still quite related to the people around him, thinks: _I need a holiday._


	4. Chapter 4

**_1 9 1 9_**

 

The final year before the twenties began to roar was a time of palpable tension for Belfaux. The Grand Duke—the late Edelstein—had nearly succumbed to a mysterious ailment that no amount of herbal bathing or bloodletting could cure. There had been a dozen armed robberies and countless cases of snatched purses—at gunpoint, at knifepoint, and with the age-old method of grabbing and running. Gunshots went off throughout the night, echoing across downtown’s jagged spine. Gangs, nearly thirty of them at their peak, snapped at each other without truly breaking the skin. They were clans of hyenas and packs of jackals, snarling and occasionally tussling, but never truly attacking one another. Civilians feared appearing in public after dark. Police constables went to investigate noise disturbances and never returned, only to be found in alleyways with the signature of some gang or another carved into their foreheads.

 _They’re sending a message,_ the people fretted, after hearing about the latest batch of organized terror or reading about them in the newspaper. Everywhere was more bad news, a worse horror story than the last one told. Nerves pulled taut across the city. _If our leader is dying and our police can’t protect us—who will?_

“Sending a message.” Gilbert Beilschmidt, standing at the round window in his office, turned to face his second-in-command. “Everybody sending messages, and I’d sure like to know what the fuck they think they’re saying.”

Abel inclined his head thoughtfully. “Be afraid. We are strong.”

Gilbert snorted. “Yeah, right.” He took a beer bottle from the icebox in the corner, removed its cap by slamming it against the edge of his desk, and downed a third of it before pensively remarking, “My father told me this would happen. The lion is dead, now the whole jungle goes to hell.”

The Dutchman was well aware that lions did not live in the jungle, but he did not point this out. Instead, he said, in his usual low voice, “Perhaps we need to send them a message. A response.”

“What could we ever do that’s worse than the shit they’ve already done?” Gilbert’s expression darkened. “They kill cops. You know we can’t do that. And tell them”—he pointed to the window, to indicate the gang members sparring on the wharf below—“if they even look at an officer, they’re out. No exceptions.”

Abel inclined his head. He did not need to speak; his loyalty went beyond the phrase _yes, sir._ And his silences were often more layered than his words. He regarded his leader, watching the Prussian again consider the idea.

“A message,” he repeated, thumb tapping the beer bottle with faint musical tones. “I don’t want to give them a message. They shouldn’t be around to get a message in the first place. I—”

At just that moment, his door was kicked in, and two Nachtadlers carried Elizabeta in to lie her down on Gilbert’s sofa/bed. She was swearing in Hungarian and she had a tourniquet hastily wrapped around her side.

“What the fuck is this?” Gilbert demanded.

Abel immediately knelt in front of the sofa, and Elizabeta said, “It’s just a scrape, I told them not to carry me. Give me a beer.”

Gilbert uncapped another bottle and passed it to her. “Who did that to you?” He jerked his head at the door. “Get out of here, you two.”

Because the gallant gang members who had carried her in had begun paying a little too much attention to the fact that Gilbert had a sofa/bed in his office, and they were not supposed to be in here except for emergencies, and this emergency was going just fine without them. They hurried out obediently.

Elizabeta clenched her teeth as Abel inspected the wound. She was unabashed at lifting her shirt in front of them; Gilbert and Abel had seen every Nachtadler naked at some point or another, and even if they hadn’t Abel made it quite clear that the only thing he felt attracted to was money.

“I don’t know who,” she replied. “I mean, I didn’t recognize any of them. But they had Russian accents, and they told me to tell you, Gilbert, that Natalya Arlovskaya wants to speak with you.”

Abel paused, glanced back at his leader.

Gilbert’s pale brow furrowed. “How many were there? What happened, exactly? Tell me everything.”

So, while Abel cleaned and re-wrapped the scrape on her side, Elizabeta told them that she had been walking down Painter Street, minding her own business, when someone called out in a language she didn’t know. She’d stopped and looked around for them, and the next thing she knew a gunshot had deafened her and she was on the ground. Everything had gone black for a moment ( _shock,_ said Abel) and her side hurt like hell, but she knew she wasn’t dying. When she’d opened her eyes, four men were standing over her, all armed. The tallest one pointed his gun at her left arm, where her eagle tattoo was visible. He said, “Tell Gilbert: Natalya Arlovskaya has words for him.”

“And then they ran away,” she finished. “Before I could do anything.”

Gilbert swirled his beer. “Well. At least this message isn’t vague.”

She rolled her eyes. “There’s the famous Beilschmidt compassion, huh?”

He focused all his attention on her with such instant intensity that she had to look away. He stepped closer, touched her cheek, gently tucked honey brown hair behind her ear. “Are you alright?” he murmured.

Elizabeta stared up at him. “Yes. Of course.”

Gilbert straightened up, clinking his bottle abruptly against hers. “Then there’s no need for compassion, is there? Cheers.” He chugged the rest of his beer while Elizabeta gave a frustrated look to a mildly amused Abel. “Ah. You got shot for having that tattoo, and you’re proud to wear it, are you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes,” replied Abel, speaking over Elizabeta because his loyalty was like his tattoo. Permanent, visible at a glance. There were, quite simply, no buts about it.

“Good.” Gilbert tossed his bottle into the trash and dragged a hand through his hair. “Fuck me, this city would make me go grey if I wasn’t already.” He waved his hand at his second-in-command, turning away. “Get out of here. Go downstairs. Both of you. I need to think.”

Elizabeta had a protest ready on her tongue, but Abel was offering a hand to escort her out, and Gilbert was already standing at the window, hair glowing the same silvery grey as the overcast sky outside.

Walking down the interior stairs of the warehouse, Elizabeta said, “Was he always like this? Or was it his brother—”

“Hush.” Abel’s admonishment, as with everything he did, was solemn and matter-of-fact. “Do not talk about that, even if he can’t hear you.”

The Hungarian stared at him, rather taken aback that, even as a member of eight months, she was not privy to the details of the Beilschmidt brothers.

Abel did not offer her false consolations. He simply said this: “Do not listen to what Gilbert says. Watch what he does, instead.”

 

The following Monday, the Royal Belfaux Bank was unsuccessfully held up by six men in balaclavas. Four people were injured, one killed.

On Tuesday, a policeman was found half-dead in a downtown gutter, a knife wedged between his ribs.

On Wednesday, a gunfight between gangs ended with four deaths, one of whom was a twelve-year-old caught in the crossfire.

On Thursday, the Grand Duke died.

On Friday, Natalya Arlovskaya brought her men to pay the Nachtadlers a visit.

 

A knock on the office door. Abel’s voice, caution at once hiding and broadcasting his anxiety. “They are here.”

Gilbert sat up at his desk. He’d been slumped over, studying the iron cross on his necklace, thinking of lions and eagles, but now he thought of Ludwig. _I won’t speak at your funeral,_ his little brother had told him. _If this life kills you, it’s because you chose it._ Every day, the truth was that Gilbert might be killed. That was the truth for everyone, but the odds were less in his favor. And now, sitting here with betrayed blue eyes tearing up in his memory, the odds were trickling between his fingers like water.  _Do you know how many police get shot?_ Gilbert had demanded. _If they tell me you die, I won’t be surprised. My brother’s been dead for years. That’s what I’ll say._ Even with tears wetting his face, Ludwig’s words cut deep: _If I'm shot, it'll be by someone like you._

Gilbert tucked his cross beneath his shirt, over his heart, and stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

Outside, in the shipyard, everything was grey and black. A slate sea, clouded sky, damp gravel underfoot, thick smoke in the air. Nachtadlers stood among the bleached carcass of an unfinished boat, eyes and pistols glinting in the orange light of a nearby bonfire. Russians gathered at the gate, two dozen men in dark coats and one woman beneath a black umbrella (held by a man, despite her free hands). The gate and the fence were only chain-link, but the strangers waited patiently to be welcomed in.

Abel, walking beside Gilbert, murmured, “Polite. Professional.”

Gilbert stopped in the middle of the yard, gaze fixated on the Russians. “Wait here.” Alone, he strode to the gate, shoulders back, head up.

Everyone fingered their guns, watching. Tensing.

With links of chain between them, Gilbert stared down Natalya. She looked older than him, but not too much. Her eyes were the precise shade of the choppy ocean, and were twice as cold.

“Ask us in,” she said.

Gilbert schooled his features. Now was not the time to show your teeth. A single wrong move could begin a war—with him here, unarmed, in no man’s land.

“Is this a business meeting?” he asked lightly.

One of Natalya’s eyebrows arched a little. “It may be.”

Gilbert raised both hands so any sudden movements—for a weapon he didn’t have—would be telegraphed, then turned to shout over his shoulder, “Guns away.”

A couple people hesitated, but within five seconds every Nachtadler had their guns holstered or pocketed.

Gilbert unlocked the gate and pushed it out of the way. “Come in,” he said.

The Russians stepped forward.

The Prussian stepped backward.

No one blinked.

When the Russians had entered—all two dozen of the bastards—everyone stood in the faint mist and smoke, eyeing each other, the fire, the wharf. Places to take cover, places to die. Potentially the last sky they would ever see, hidden by clouds.

“So,” said Gilbert, “enough dramatics. Tell me what you want.”

Several pairs of Russian eyes narrowed.

Natalya’s lips curled upward ever so slightly. “I want Belfaux. I want to control this city. Every gang on this island will work for me, or they will be destroyed. Your Nachtadlers are the biggest, so I came to you first.”

Gilbert squared his shoulders. “This is my city.”

Her smirk widened. “Then we will destroy you.”

Behind him, the Nachtadlers began to shift, restless and righteous. Gilbert held up a hand, warning them against becoming trigger-happy. This was not the time to rush. This was not the time to act without serious consideration for consequences.

But the truth was, there was nothing to consider. This woman would have no interest in keeping Ludwig Beilschmidt out of harm’s way.

“My father mentioned you and your work,” remarked Gilbert. “He was always impressed by you. Not fond, at all, but impressed.”

Natalya’s face didn’t change. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

“No. I’m politely segueing into the proposal of a deal.”

A tiny, tiny spark in those dark blue eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Let’s not bother with a shootout. Maybe you’ll win, maybe you won’t. You have more men than I do, probably more training. We’ll say you’re more likely to win. Consider it a foregone conclusion.” He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the iron cross against his breastbone. “Forget about guns. If I can beat your best man in single combat, that proves I’m above people who work for you. So, if I win, you and I will become partners.”

To everyone’s surprise, Natalya laughed. An oddly pleasant sound, despite the blatant contempt in it. “Partners.”

“Of a sort. Not equal partners, I wouldn’t expect that. I realize it’s very generous of you to listen to me right now. Let me just put my cards on the table. I win, we’re partners, and you’ll get a determined cut of what we pull in from arms and snuff and favors.”

Behind him, Elizabeta’s brow furrowed, and Abel smiled faintly. _Clever, clever._

Natalya pursed her thin, pale lips. “And if you lose?”

Gilbert’s hands dropped to his sides, fingers clenched in fists. “The Nachtadlers all become your henchmen and you skim as much profit as your purse can fit.”

Silent protests behind him were quelled by a chiding glare from Abel.

Delighted, Natalya said, “I have a very big purse, Prussian.” She lifted a dainty hand, saying in their mother tongue, “Come, Vanya. You will fight him, and you will win.”

Ivan stepped forward, the tallest and broadest of her men. He was half a head taller than Gilbert, who in comparison seemed suddenly frail, fragile. The Russians leered; the Nachtadlers exchanged concerned glances. Ivan and Gilbert had no expressions beyond the determination of man accustomed to inflicting pain. _One more,_ they both said to themselves without realizing it. _One more stuck pig. One more slashed corpse. Another drop of blood means nothing when it falls into a crimson ocean._

“We fight,” said Gilbert, “until one of us has to stop.”

Ivan’s smile was the same as his sister’s: small, pale, and eerily smug. “I will kill you.”

Gilbert stared at him, then shrugged, cracking his knuckles. “Like I said.”

And then, without further ado, they lunged for each other. To those watching, it was unbelievably swift, like two boxing hares. To Gilbert and Ivan, it was heat and sound. Neither fell into defensive posture; they did not dance around each other. Both surged, again and again. Gilbert’s upward swinging fists blocked Ivan’s higher blows. Gilbert struck him in the ribs, two solid jabs digging into coat, shirt, flesh, organs. Too fast, not fast enough. Ivan grabbed him by the collar, punched him in the temple. Gilbert’s vision failed; he swung blind, feebly bashing Ivan’s sides. Ivan lost his hold and secured it again, this time in Gilbert’s hair, fingers burning his scalp. An explosion of red, brain sloshing, skull jarring—Ivan hit him square in the face. Gilbert couldn’t see, but he felt knuckles against the delicate globes of his eyes. Another blow; Gilbert dropped to his knees, a puppet rendered useless by the strings in his head. Another. Gilbert heard his nose crunch, implode, broken. His face was a blunt object, a slippery mask made of pain. Ivan hauled him higher by the hair, aimed a final blow lazily, and sent Gilbert sprawling on the bloodied concrete below with the solid flop of dead weight.

The Russians gave sparse applause, snide remarks, barked laughter. Ivan watched Gilbert lie limp, eyes closed, breaths raspy and shallow. Ivan tilted his head to one side. _The Prussian opossum,_ he thought. _Playing at death._

Then!

Gilbert shifted slightly. He lifted his head a little. His shoulders rose . . . and he spat out a tooth in a puddle of blood.

More Russian laughter.

Without any sign of hearing them, Gilbert pushed his weight to his elbows and began to drag himself toward the bonfire. Ivan knew why; with that much head trauma, the orange blob was likely all the abused man could see. Ivan walked along beside Gilbert, observing him curiously. He did intend to kill him, but he thought there would be more of a fight than this. Killing a man this pathetic felt like a waste.

Gilbert collapsed when he finally reached the fire, bloody drool oozing from his mouth. Ivan stood beside him, peering downward, wondering if it would be better to wait until Gilbert passed out to kill him, or if he was going to pass out at all, or if Natalya would give him an order before then. Despite his years of training, his mind was already wandering, and when Gilbert’s leg moved, Ivan’s gaze went there.

Distraction only lasts a moment. That was all Gilbert needed.

A thin iron bar rested half in, half out of the flames. The Nachtadlers had been using it as a fire poker. Now, Gilbert grabbed it, sat up, and swung the bar upward at Ivan.

The hot end caught him across the throat. Blunt trauma, more shock than pain—and then the heat. His skin caught and burned. Ivan smelled his own flesh being killed.

The Russian staggered backward, at first a gasp and then a scream tearing from his chest. Natalya’s other men protested loudly, cursing in their language, calling Gilbert a cheater. The leader of the Nachtadlers dropped his weapon and fell to his side on the ground, his head pulsating as he struggled to maintain consciousness.

Natalya and three Russian men strode quickly over. Sharply, she ordered two of them to help Ivan down to the water to clean his wound. The remaining man held the umbrella over her head to protect her from the mist, even as she bent slightly at the waist to address the prone Prussian.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “there were no pre-stated rules about improvised weapons, hm?”

Gilbert couldn’t respond. He couldn’t even open his mouth.

Natalya paused, listening to more strangled screams as Ivan’s scalded neck was invaded with salt water. Then she said, “You are worthy of my attention, if not my respect.” She straightened. “I will return in a week’s time to sort out the details of our arrangement.” A faint, frigid smile graced her lips. “Perhaps by then you will have the makings of a face again. Good day, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

Car doors closed. Motors grumbled into the distance. The last thing he heard before blacking out was the deafening roar of his Nachtadlers as they celebrated his victory.

 

On Saturday, the city was his.

And on Sunday, he made the acquaintance of a gentleman thief.


	5. Chapter 5

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**WEST WHARF**

Because of Belfaux’s unsavory relationship with England, its western port—which received nearly exclusively British imports—has been out of use for decades. Builders abandoned their work in the shipyard; the warehouse stood empty, save for stacks of rotting palettes and a family of rats. Today, it is the headquarters of the Nachtadlers, and as Alfred Jones walks up to the chain link gate, it occurs to him to be nervous. _The point of no return,_ he thinks. This is like the first day with the mobsters in Jersey all over again, but worse. None of this is home. This is a whole ocean away from anything he knows.

 _They’re still people,_ he reminds himself, catching Antonio watching him in his peripheral vision. _The same rules apply._

Alfred offers half a smile to Antonio. It’s a smile he perfected in the mirror years ago: the left side of his mouth does all the work, and it pokes a dimple in his cheek so charming the viewer has no choice but to agree with him, even if the agreement is just the fact that, yes, he is handsome as all hell.

“You from here?” asks Alfred. “Originally?”

Antonio shakes his head. “Spain. Can’t go back yet. Bounties, you know. Maybe one day.” He smiles wistfully. “I miss the sun.”

He hadn’t noticed until it was pointed out, but now that he thinks about it—he hasn’t seen the sun since he crossed the pond. Or the moon, for that matter. But if he’s going to miss one or the other, it’ll be the sun. The moon is lonely. He prefers the sun. Maybe it’s lonely too, but it never shows it. Alfred nods. “Yeah, I kinda miss it, too.”

They stop in front of the gate. From here, the warehouse looks like a giant toy box minus the cheerful red-yellow-blue paint of childhood. The wharf itself is hidden behind it, but Alfred can see the sea out to the murky horizon. England is out there somewhere, and past it, far past it, lies the United States. _Don’t get all nostalgic and sentimental,_ he scolds himself. _You’re not a kid, and you’re not an old man, either._ He’s a young man, and therefore he should be invincible.

The four of them peer through the fence for a silent moment. No one is visible from here, and there are no sounds of outdoor activity on the other side of the warehouse.

Arthur speaks first. “Perhaps we should come back a bit later.”

Francis’s head jerks to look at him. “Absolutely not. You wanted to come here so soon, now we are here. Open the gate, none of us want to stand here in the rain.”

Arthur scowls, but it’s half-hearted because the Frenchman isn’t wrong. He starts to climb the fence with ease, but the metal is wet and his foot slips. He catches himself, only hesitates for a second, but still the question comes: “Want help there?”

“Not from you, Jones,” snaps Arthur without looking back. He’s climbed plenty of fences and walls since the first in that alley five years ago, and it shows. He still isn’t the strongest—far from it—but he possesses an undeniable grace now, an agile confidence he’s gained from his time with Francis. _If you are always doing something worth watching,_ the Frenchman told him once, _you don’t need to worry about people staring at you._ When he said things like that, it was easy to imagine falling for him. Even nice to imagine. But Arthur knows better now. Love exists, he’s never doubted that, but it’s not something for him. That was one of Francis’s most important lessons. This life, the life of a con, has no room for love. It will only be used against you, in the end. Better for everyone if you don’t bother with it.

Arthur drops down on the other side of the fence, shoes splashing in a puddle. He removes a small tension wrench and lockpick from an inner pocket of his waistcoat. A snake rake pick, because although he’s perfectly capable of hooking, he knows this lock is a wafer and there’s no need to waste time or skill on it. He inserts them both into the keyhole. Metal grinds metal. There’s no sound more satisfying than the scraping of iron teeth, the manipulation of a mechanism, the anticipation— _Click._

Ah, bliss.

Arthur unlatches the lock and hauls the gate aside, gesturing with sarcastic grandness. “Enter, Your Excellencies.”

Francis and Antonio step past without pause, but Alfred closes the gate for Arthur, saying, “That was damn good. I’ve seen lockpicks work before, but never that quick.”

A small part of Arthur swells, warmed by the praise, but he ignores it. “I’m a thief-of-all-trades,” he says. “I have to be good at all of it.”

Alfred blinks, face open and curious and startlingly youthful.

 _If he’s to be my student,_ thinks Arthur reluctantly, _he certainly looks the part. Thick as a post._

“There are different elements to thievery. Pickpocketing, burgling, fencing. Lockpicking,” he says, slipping his pick and wrench back into his pocket. “Most generally, we specialize in one or two of those things. I do them all.”

Alfred’s impressed gaze goes to Francis and Antonio, who are nearly at the warehouse door. “What about your partner?”

For some reason, _your partner_ sounds obscene on those American lips. Like Arthur should be ashamed of what he and Francis have. Do they have something? It’s more that they have the memory of something and they keep waiting for real life to match up with it of its own accord. Arthur is waiting. Francis probably isn’t. He’s not interested in romance that goes beyond sex. Passion, yes, but not romance. _Do we have passion?_ wonders Arthur. _Rage counts as passion, doesn’t it?_

“He’s a gentleman thief,” replies Arthur, starting across the soggy pavement. “That’s what he likes to call himself. Really, he’s just a cat burglar without a mask.”

It’s not as if what they have is bad, per say. It’s survival. It’s like . . . how best to describe it . . . it’s like when someone is choking and you poke a hole in their windpipe so they can breathe. It may be uncomfortable and a tad on the violent side, but it’s necessary.

 _Why am I thinking about this nonsense?_ Mentally, Arthur grabs his brain by the lapels—it’s a well-dressed organ—and gives it a good shake. This American is making him go mad. Arthur just wants to introduce him to Gilbert, then drag him—Alfred, not Gilbert—off somewhere private and ask him what the bloody hell his next move is going to be. Arthur is absolutely _not_ going to get his comrades arrested, but right now, he can’t make a plan because too many variables are out of his control. It makes his teeth grind.

Walking into the warehouse, the quartet is immediately greeted by the scream of a man hanging from a giant hook. The giant hook is connected to a hoist and was originally intended to lift heavy objects to move and stack them throughout the warehouse. Now, it is used to puncture men through the shoulder and suspend them above the ground while Nachtadlers interrogate them, torture them, or both. Presently, there are a dozen Nachtadlers watching Gilbert smack the hooked fish with a broom handle.

Arthur’s gaze cuts to Alfred, but he just looks back evenly. The thief has no need to worry about this; Alfred spent time with the mob. A bit of roughing-up is nothing special, although the hoist is a creative touch.

Gilbert points at the blubbering man hanging above; in profile, his nose is about as straight as his friends, which is to say not at all. “You didn’t want to open your mouth before, so shut the fuck up now.” He turns to the newcomers, eyes Alfred a moment, then says, “Bit busy.”

“Blame Arthur,” says Francis. “He desperately wanted to see you.”

Gilbert arches an eyebrow slightly at Arthur, who rolls his eyes. “As usual, Francis is exaggerating. It’s actually my friend here who wants to see you.”

All eyes, including the bruised ones of the fish, go to Alfred. He squares his shoulders and says, “Alfred Jones, nice to meet y’all.” Fuck, where did that twang come from? _Don’t get cocky, stuff slips out when you get cocky._ “I came to this city ’cause I hear it’s the best place to make a quick dime without slaving for somebody.”

Arthur gives Francis a pointed look, but the Frenchman ignores it.

“And I hear it’s your city,” adds Alfred. “So I figured I’d talk to you. Not to ask for a job, but . . . well, for your blessing.”

Outside of the crowd observing the fish, there’s a card table, some faded sofas, even a bar built into the far wall. Abel, sitting at the bar and watching over his shoulder, almost laughs at the American’s words. Gilbert does laugh, then grins at Alfred, then stares at him in wonderment. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Alfred glances around the room. Everyone has a bemused expression, and there’s something hopeful in Arthur’s eyes. _Hoping I’ll screw myself over,_ thinks Alfred. (He’s not wrong.) Unfortunately for the thief, Alfred has no intention of losing. Especially not this early into the game.

“Where I come from,” says Alfred truthfully, “if somebody started working on somebody else’s turf, they’d be shot in a second. I’d rather you didn’t do that to me.”

Gilbert grows serious. “Nobody works in my city without me knowing about it.” He turns to the fish, hits him across the abdomen. “And when I find out about it, I get very angry, don’t I? You couldn’t even be as courteous as an American, you toothless lime-juicing clot.”

“I resent that,” mumbles Arthur, but it’s drowned out by the fish’s whimpering.

“What was this one doing?” asks Antonio, voice raised to be heard over more broom handle blows. The Spaniard is the only one of the newcomers who winces when the fish gets hit. (Alfred makes note of that.)

“Trying to intercept a snuff shipment,” replies Gilbert through his teeth. “Thought he was a clever little fuck. Stowed away on the boat from England. This one’s a pureblood lobster, Francis. Your mouth dry?”

The Frenchman regards the fish blandly. “He doesn’t deserve French saliva.”

Gilbert glances at Arthur. “What about you, Kirkland? Englisch hate each other, don’t they?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I save my spit for Americans these days.”

The Prussian shrugs. “Suit yourselves.” He gives the fish one final whack, right between the legs, and turns away, shouting over the wails, “Eliza, come take down the piñata and bring it out back. Don’t leave any candy inside. And be sure to spit on him.”

Elizabeta just shakes her head as she and a couple other Nachtadlers walk over to take the fish down, responding to his begging with only a sharp _Shut the fuck up._

“Now,” says Gilbert, beckoning Abel as he takes a seat at the head of the card table, “what’s this about a blessing, Jones? That’s pretty damn presumptuous of you. Just because you walk in with my friends doesn’t mean you deserve a golden egg.”

Alfred sits down opposite Gilbert, smiling. “No, you’re right, it doesn’t mean that. I’m not even interested in a whole egg. I’ll just take the shell, actually. That part is gold for sure. Who knows what’s on the inside? That yolk could be nickel for all I know.”

Antonio is staring at him like he’s speaking in tongues. Francis ducks his head, a hand over his eyes as he sighs. Arthur is, inexplicably, grinning. It almost looks genuine, too. _He looks more human when he smiles like that. He looks good._

“Fuck _me_.” Gilbert leans back in his chair, exasperated. “I thought Kirkland was the one with the painful metaphors.”

Alfred finds himself grinning now. “Yeah? Well, we must be kindred spirits.”

Arthur points to the bloody hook behind them, no longer cheered. “I don’t know if that hoist is strong enough to hold a Yank, but if you’d like to find out, by all means, keep flirting with me.”

Alfred lifts his hands to mollify, but he’s still smiling. “Sorry.”

Abel joins them at the table, sitting beside Gilbert and handing him a bottle of beer. “Aside from very small-time operations that we haven’t gotten around to stopping, the only thieves in Belfaux are sitting at this table. If they will forgive me for speaking on their behalf—” He gives them an inquiring glance. Arthur and Francis incline their heads. “They could be working with any number of cons, many of whom have more skill than you. Showing up here does not guarantee you, as you say, a quick dime.”

Gilbert nods. “If you like metaphors—the ecosystem is balanced without you in it. There’s no prey for you just lying around. You hunt here, you’re taking food out of their mouths.” He flicks a friendly hand at the thieves.

Alfred tilts his head slightly to one side. “But Francis said he’d try me out.”

“Excusez-moi.” Francis sits up straight now. “I said we would use you, if you have a use. I did not say you would be any more than a cannon.”

Arthur sees Alfred’s cogs grinding and says, “You won’t be going on heists with us. That’s where the real money is. Picking pockets on the streets is nothing.” This is not entirely true, but as far as their employer is concerned, it’s the reality. “And the jobs you do pull off will have a very large portion taken from your cut. There will be no quick dimes.”

Alfred tries to imagine how a hardened criminal—con, God’s sake—would react to this news. Would they get angry? Or would they even be surprised? He doesn’t want to come off as too much of a douche, so he just pretends to mull it over before saying, “Money is money. I came here to make more than I would have back home, and that’s what I’ll do. This place is a goldmine, portions or not. Even the tourists can smell the money in the air. They keep coming for it, right?”

“Oui,” says Francis, with just a hint of fondness for Belfaux in his tone, “but you should be careful to make sure you are a miner in that goldmine, not a canary.”

Gilbert and Antonio exchange a grim look. _More metaphors._

Alfred wonders if there’s an actual threat in those ambiguous words. “Why? What kills Belfaux’s canary? The cops?”

Antonio, Francis, Arthur, and a handful of eavesdropping Nachtadlers have a good laugh at that.

“Nein,” says Gilbert, thumping his bottle down on the table. Everyone falls silent. Flatly, Gilbert says, “Not the cops. The Russians.”

The effect of the final two words on the people seated around the table is immediate. Arthur scowls, Antonio cringes, and Francis takes out a faux-gold cigarette case carved with swirling flora. Arthur holds out a hand, and after a moment the pair of them are inhaling in unison: Arthur hunched over the table as if to protect a flame from wind, Francis lounging with a leg on an empty seat and an arm hanging over the back of his own chair. Unflappable Abel looks more bothered by the smoke than the Russians, but he stays silent.

Alfred glances around at them all, eyebrows lifted. “Who are the Russians?”

Francis and Gilbert both snort. Arthur and Antonio are both very interested in the stained felt of the card table.

“Partners,” replies Abel, “of the Nachtadlers. Led by Natalya Arlovskaya.”

“They come and take money from us a few times a year,” says Gilbert, irritated. “Then they fuck off and let us operate the way I decide. It’s a pretty good deal, considering.”

He doesn’t mention what is meant to be considered. Abel gives his leader a reassuring glance. The unwritten part of his rank: _Yes, you made the right decision. Yes, you are a good boss. Yes, you are strong._ A role filled more and more as of late, but Abel—against his own better judgement—chooses to ignore that.

The American leans closer to the table, intrigued. “So she takes a cut from your profit?”

“From the bordello and the thieves, too,” says Antonio. His gaze is still on the tabletop.

That widens Alfred’s eyes. “Why did you all agree to that?”

Francis and Arthur stab him with dagger eyes. “Not everything,” hisses the Frenchman, “is a choice.”

“Mind yourself,” adds Arthur, tone chillingly mild. “This isn’t your magical world of American dreams and apple pie.”

 _As if I need to be reminded._ Everything here is so different. People like these would never, ever hand over their income to some semi-present overlord back home. The mobsters ruled, that’s it. _That’s America,_ thinks Alfred. _This is Europe._ If the States is a growling dog, this place is a bunch of pissed-off tomcats chucked into a burlap bag.

“The Russians are evil,” says Antonio, lifting his head. Such a serious expression does not do his bright eyes justice. “Ivan is Satan in the flesh.”

“Hell no.” Gilbert empties his bottle. “Natalya’s the brains, he’s just the brawn. Reasoning with that woman is like talking to a brick wall with tits.” His eyes narrow. “But she’s a crafty bitch of a son, I’ll give her that. I bet Vati’s proud of her.”

Alfred blinks in surprise. “You know her dad?”

Abel chuckles, and Gilbert joins him before replying, “Nein, but I know the chances of him being an honest man are slim and none. We follow in the footsteps left for us, ja?”

Pensively, Antonio nods.

Thoughtfully, Francis hums.

Abruptly, Arthur stands. “I’ve suddenly found myself with an intense craving to inhale the soothing scent of brine and death. I’ll be out on the wharf. I’d like a word, Jones, at your convenience.”

Alfred turns to watch him walk rather stiffly out. _(Jesus Christ, those hips.)_ Francis watches Alfred watch him, eyes narrowed again. Gilbert silently curses himself for the words. Very, very seldom does he care about offending people with his words, but talking about parents around Arthur verges on cruelty.

“Well,” says Alfred, turning back around. “Anyway. The Russians are evil, got it. Do I need to ask them for permission to work?”

“Don’t bother,” says Francis. “They will say no. Just pick pockets and be grateful we are letting you do that. You Americans are too greedy.”

“Everybody’s greedy.” He lets a smile spread over his mouth: this one is closest of all to a devious smirk, with a hint of teeth, and a play to his eyebrows that says _look at how gorgeous and confident I am, and did I mention the view is better on your knees?_ “It’s just that us Americans like to look you in the eye while we fuck you over.”

Francis’s shoulders tense, but Gilbert is laughing. “Well, well, the Yank is a piece of work. Why am I not surprised.”

Alfred decides to take that as a compliment, which is good because Gilbert meant it that way for once. “One last thing before I go make sure the Brit is still kicking out there. I know the police here are a joke, but is there anything else I need to know about them?”

“The Chief is my brother,” says Gilbert, matter-of-fact. “If you fuck with him or his men, I’ll cook up those baby blues of yours and feed them to you.”

Antonio grimaces, but Alfred just nods. “Understood.”

“The bordello is Ludwig’s current point of interest,” says Abel. “But as far as we know he has made limited progress. He still operates under the restrictions of rules. He has no warrant to search the church, even though everyone knows what it really is.”

Francis shakes his head. “But there are a dozen ways he could work around that, if he is at all clever.”

“He’s clever,” says Gilbert. “But not like that.” He rubs his jaw. “Still. He’s been doing nothing for months. It’s . . . weird.”

“Oui,” agrees Francis, a tad sharp because he suspects someone knows why.

Antonio shrugs, because he knows why.

Alfred pushes to his feet. “Thanks for the info. You won’t regret the blessing, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

Gilbert regards the American—who, saying those words, looks for all the world like a young man asking to marry someone’s daughter—and smiles in an unintentionally soft way that surprises all parties. “We’ll see.”

Those are the eyes made for burning through masks, but it’s the friendliness of the smile that makes Alfred feel vulnerable. _These are bad people,_ he reminds himself as he makes his way out of the warehouse. _These are criminals. Cons. Villains._

Outside, behind the warehouse, Elizabeta has left the fish wrapped in a bloody tarpaulin. Alfred gives the corpse a wide berth, realizing that he heard no screams earlier and hoping that means the man’s death was swift. The rain has let up, leaving only a slight mist. Arthur stands at the end of the wharf, looking out to sea. Alfred walks toward him slowly, calling, “You look like you’re waiting for someone to come home.”

Arthur lifts his head, turns around slowly. His face is closed off, but anger simmers underneath. “Spare me the American charm. It’s tacky.”

“Ouch.” Alfred can’t hold back his grin. “You know, you didn’t have to run me all around the city like this. There wasn’t really a rush to meet Antonio and Gilbert. You have Francis on alert now.”

The simmer turns to steam. “Well, how was I supposed to know what you wanted? You’ve told me nothing.”

 _Control freak,_ notes Alfred.

“Funny,” he says. “I could have sworn we weren’t holding hands.”

 _Bleeding prick,_ notes Arthur.

“No arrests will happen for a while,” says Alfred. “I need to observe, live among you guys, before I make any plans.”

“You don’t even have a plan?” The steam is shrieking now; take the kettle off. “You have a lot of bloody cheek if you honestly think I’m going to betray my friends for you. What do you intend to do if I refuse to help you now, arrest me? Good luck with that. Any second I could go in there and tell them your little secret, and you’d be dead. Don’t act like you have any power over me.”

Alfred closes the distance between them, smiling down at the other man. “But you haven’t done that. You haven’t told. Why’s that?”

Arthur opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He has, for the first time in years, been rendered speechless.

“Can I tell you what I think?” Alfred leans closer to the thief, voice lowering to a murmur. “I think part of you knows all of this is wrong. I think part of you is glad I’m here.”

Lids droop over those green eyes.

Alfred smiles, lips hovering over Arthur’s ear. “I think,” he whispers, “you want to do something good, for a change.”

Arthur’s eyes nearly close, he nearly sways into Alfred’s chest, he nearly surrenders to the temptation—

And then he opens his eyes, stands up straight, and says, “So that’s you trying to be seductive, is it?”

Alfred stares, taken aback by the sudden transformation. “Er— _trying_?”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Could use some work.”

“That was totally fine seduction,” says Alfred, genuinely hurt but sure as hell hiding it. “It was great, actually.”

“Really. Your husky whisper sounded like a prepubescent boy.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “And my ear is now damp enough to be a suitable habitat for amphibians.”

 _At least I was a prepubescent boy at one point._ He might have said that, back home. His job isn’t to be nice to criminals. But he doesn’t want those words bittering his tongue. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who says things like that.

“Then you’ll just have to teach me how to be seductive,” says Alfred, instead. “Along with the pocket-picking. You can manage that, can’t you? Being a thief-of-all-trades.”

Arthur smirks, moving so close their chests almost brush, and tips his head back to look at Alfred with bedroom eyes. “There are much better things to stroke,” he drawls, voice dipping low, “than my ego, Alfred Jones.”

_Oh._

The thief flicks Alfred’s chin with a deft finger. “We’ll be here into the evening. Drinks, cards, revelry. I suggest you procure a dribble bib.” He turns away, then glances back over his shoulder. “Oh, and just for the record. No part of me is glad you’re here. Personally, I think what you do is worse than what I do. I take valuables. You take people’s lives. You don’t know what prison is like. You might as well be dead behind those godforsaken bars.” His voice has become a tad unhinged; he regains his composure and finishes, “You should look in the mirror before you put on that white knight armor. Tell me if the thing underneath still looks like a hero.”

He leaves Alfred there, on the wharf. Both feel a twinge in their hearts, but neither think much of it. Alfred has never felt it before, after all, and Arthur feels it every single day.

 

**ST. RAPHAELA’S**

That night, after the casinos have been emptied of the casual players, after shop windows have fallen to darkness, after the thieves have returned to their flat and the mole to the inn, after the pimp has drifted into tequila-flavored slumber in his private room at the bordello, after the angels have sucked and fucked their patrons to a warm salty oblivion, Feliciano Vargas comes home.

The lights are all out, save for an oil lamp in the entrance hall. It bathes the bordello’s black book in a soft yellow light. Feliciano snuffs out the flame and creeps silently upstairs. The halls are carpeted with soft red rugs; he knows, by now, that it takes sixteen steps to reach his door. He doesn’t need a candle, but there’s one lit inside the room. Lovino sits on his brother’s bed, candlestick on the bedside table, face severe in the flickering gloom.

Feliciano lowers the hood of his navy cape. His eyes glisten, their natural amber made brighter by the flame and the tears.

Lovino hates this, all of this, but he holds out his arms, because it’s the only thing to be done. His little brother comes forward, curls up into a ball on the bed, like a kitten in Lovino’s lap. Lovino strokes his back slowly, remembering from Arthur how to play the mother hen. He doesn’t want to ask his brother what happened, because there is no good answer to receive. _That’s the rule, when you live like this,_ he thinks. _There’s no right thing. Just fucked-up and less fucked-up._

Feliciano begins to weep softly, wetting Lovino’s silk nightshirt. _Shhh, shhh._ Lovino rocks him slowly, like a bambino. Then, without having to be asked, Feliciano gives the answer.

“He s-still won’t talk to me,” whispers the younger Italian. “He won’t even see me. He h-hates me.”

 _If I was the bastard, I’d hate you, too._ But this has no chance of passing Lovino’s lips. He just mumbles, in their language, echoing the words of their grandfather, “Everything will be alright in the end.” He doesn’t know how in God’s name he has become the optimistic one, but he wishes he could stop pretending. _It’s all a show,_ he thinks, blearily watching the candle’s tiny flame. _And it_ _never ends, so it will never be alright._

Lovino holds his brother until the crying stops, until the candle burns down to the stick, until the weak morning light peeks through the window to find the brothers still holding each other, even in tear-stained sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The snuff in this story is similar in appearance to snuff tobacco. That is where the similarities end. Snuff tobacco won't make you trip, no matter how Spanish you are. This has been a public service announcement.

**_1 9 2 0_ **

 

Here are two stories.

One is about broken hands. The other is about broken hearts.

The hands came first.

 

There was a time—from 1917 to 1920, to be precise—when Antonio Fernández Carriedo was the best cardsharp in Belfaux. He’d been run out of every casino, club, and gambling den in his home country, and his handsome face became too infamous to hide behind fake personas. So he traveled northwest, dodging bounty hunters and police constables, until he found the island. It had no sun, but the casino lights made up for that. He found a pleasant surprise in these flamboyant establishments: he had no competition. Scoping out those places on his first day in Belfaux, he saw only a couple crooked players, and their technique left much to be desired. One even got caught ghosting cards, and Antonio cringed in sympathy when the bouncer stormed over and dragged the poor bastard out by the scruff of the neck. In Spain, they’d cut fingers off if they caught you cheating—and all bets (ha) were off if it was a private game with someone dangerous. In Belfaux, the worst that happened—as far as Antonio saw—was a few bruises in the back alley. Nothing a plucky Spaniard couldn’t handle.

Years later, an Englishman would ask him this: _Why do you like to gamble so much? Are you addicted to the risk, the thrill?_

To which he replied: _I never gamble. I cheat, so I don’t have to gamble. The only risk is getting caught. The thrill is having money to buy churros afterward._

The last part was a bit of a lie. He did enjoy the game, and cheating just made it more fun, more of a challenge. Poker was the best, but he played anything with a deck and a table. He loved the feeling of cards in his hands, slipping between his fingers like silk. Worn decks were lovely for their softness, faded royalty. New decks cracked crisply against the felt, like a whip against a race horse. The anticipation before a game, eyeing up the opponents, the clinking chips, the cigarillo stubs between thick-ringed fingers . . . It had a taste to it, and he couldn’t get enough.

And then.

One day, Antonio was working a table in arguably the city’s finest casino, the Diamond Kite. His pile of chips grew steadily, but not too steadily. Most sharps got overly greedy, cheating at every hand and getting out as quickly as possible. Antonio didn’t mind staying longer, playing honestly every few hands, taking a loss here and there. It was only fair. Plus, it kept him in Lady Luck’s good graces. He thought so, at least.

At some point, a Russian woman wound up seated across from him at the table. He’d never seen her before; she must have been a tourist. She didn’t really look like a tourist, however. She was not flirting and laughing, nor did she offer any cleavage for him to admire. He tried to chat with her as he prepared to make a false cut, but he was barely a syllable into his nonsensical question before a tall man appeared behind her. He loomed over the table, and Antonio lost his rhythm under that eerie gaze. His fingers slipped, and it all fell apart.

Everyone knew what had happened. A regular winner like Antonio didn’t just drop a deck of cards. Guns came out, _cheater_ was shouted in French, English, and Italian. Fortunately, Antonio knew that word in many languages, and he left his chips on the table and bolted for a back door.

A hand grabbed his collar and he fell backward as if yanked by the hand of God—or, indeed, of the Devil. A bouncer with dark, scarred skin glared down at him.

“We’ll take him.”

Antonio and the bouncer glanced up. Natalya and Ivan appeared and Ivan offered a hand. “We will take him,” repeated the Russian man in a deep, rolling voice.

The bouncer paused, considering. (Perhaps if he’d thought a little longer. Perhaps if Antonio hadn’t run. Perhaps.) “Fine,” he said. He released Antonio and returned to his post.

Ivan’s hand was even harder than the bouncer’s, grip like iron. He ushered Antonio roughly out into the back alley, a dank rectangle smelling of rot and spirits. Ivan threw Antonio down into the gritty muck, and the Spaniard had a fleeting second of sweet hope. _Maybe this won’t be so bad,_ he thought.

Then Ivan’s boot came down on his head.

When Antonio opened his eyes again, he was on the West Wharf. The sky spat on him; the sea churned and hissed. Antonio’s temple throbbed and his arms ached. He was tied to a cheap chair, arms behind him and—his stomach dropped—a cinder block bound to his thighs, on his lap like a Christmas present.

Antonio cast around in panic. Natalya crossed her arms over her chest, and Antonio said vehemently, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Señorita—Señora—I didn’t mean to cause any offense, i-it was just—”

“Apology,” said Natalya flatly, “is worth nothing.”

She nodded to her brother.

Ivan tipped the chair back, onto its rear legs. Salt water sprayed up on the back of Antonio’s neck.

“Please!” he cried, whites of his eyes flashing like a spooked animal. “Please, dios mío, please, I’ll pay you back! I’ll pay for damages, with interest! I’ll be indebted to you forever!”

And, just like that, it stopped.

Ivan let the chair fall back onto all four legs. Antonio was winded by relief. He panted, “Gracias, thank you . . .”

Natalya’s face had not changed. “Don’t speak too soon. How is it you intend to pay me back? Not with cards. I’m not interested in your pittance.”

Antonio’s mind raced. He thought of a conversation he’d overheard earlier, between two regulars at a bar. _There’s no good whores in this city anymore. Mm, and the ones you do find have more crabs than the sea._

“I’ll start a bordello,” he said quickly, almost tripping over his own words. “A brothel. Belfaux doesn’t have one, hasn’t as long as I’ve been here. I know prostitutes, I know lots of people—if we make sure they’re all clean and get a nice place for them, we’ll make a killing.”

Natalya considered all of this, then asked, “And who will pay for this nice place?”

“Um. You.”

“Oh? Well, then I will need more than the word of a Spaniard. How do I know you won’t run away, cheat at tables elsewhere?”

Precisely what Antonio had every intention of doing, but he said, “I swear that I won’t. I swear it on my heart, on my mother’s grave.” He gave her his most genuine look, green puppy dog eyes, a smile innocent enough for Sunday service.

Natalya looked him up and down, then gave a minimal gesture. “Very well.”

Ivan untied his legs, his arms, lifted the cinder block.

Antonio hopped up, light with relief. “Thank you.” He held out a hand. “So, we have a deal?”

“We do.” Natalya seemed thoughtful now. “But perhaps it would be appropriate for you to seal the deal in the manner of my motherland. Bow down, on your knees, with your hands palm-down. It shows gratitude, and utmost respect.”

Antonio didn’t know anything about Russia outside of snow and vodka, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to reject this borderline friendly request and piss them off again. So, he knelt, ducked his head, and stretched his hands out in front of him. The wharf was cool, damp, rough beneath his soft palms.

Ivan dropped the cinder block on his hands.

There was no delay, no saving shock, no numbness. Just the crunch of delicate bones and blunt concrete, and Antonio screaming, screaming, curling around his hands in desperate agony.

Somewhere, Natalya said, “Collateral.”

They left him there like that, hands in waves upon waves of bright red pain, concrete digging into his cheek. The clouds opened overhead, drenching him. He could do nothing. His hands had given him everything through his life—food, money, love. Now—now, nothing. Pain and pain and nothing.

Antonio didn’t know if he lay there for minutes or hours, but when he managed to look up, a silver-haired man was standing over him, a belligerent sort of sympathy in his crimson eyes.

“Fucking Russians,” said Gilbert.

Miserably, Antonio nodded.

The Prussian helped him stagger into the warehouse, sat him down on the sofa/bed in his office. He dug around for something in the drawers of his desk while the second-in-command set and wrapped Antonio’s fingers. Tears streamed down the Spaniard’s face, but he stifled his cries into whimpers. Abel gave him a light smile.

“You must have pretty shit pain tolerance,” remarked Gilbert. “You picked a bad line of work.”

“I’m a cardsharp,” said Antonio, then looked down at the wreck of his hands. He could only feel the pain in them; he couldn’t move anything past the wrist. New terror rose. It was one thing to be unable to cheat at cards, but what if he couldn’t use his hands at all? What if he was invalid?

“You _were_ a cardsharp.” Gilbert stepped over, offering what appeared to be a tiny silver spoon, the cup of which was filled with a fine brown, white-flecked powder. It looked like cinnamon sugar. “I’d say you’re retired now. Here. That’ll take the pain away.”

Gilbert held the little spoon beneath one of Antonio’s nostrils. It was true that he would usually drink anything handed to him, but snorting and smoking and shooting—he was wary about those things. He cared more about his brain and his lungs than he did about his liver. But taking the pain away . . .

“It’s snuff,” said Gilbert. “It won’t kill you. It’s stronger and quicker than what they’d give you at a hospital.”

Tears came to his eyes when he considered dealing with this pain all the way to a hospital in midtown. He inhaled the powder in one quick breath, then leant his head back against the top of the sofa/bed. The stuff didn’t smell like cinnamon, it smelled like burnt crust. But it warmed his sinuses, tingled its way up behind his eyes, and the lamp on Gilbert’s desk sparkled, it was tiny stars come down, trapped in the shade, little fairies, pixie dust, gold sparkles . . .

“Hey. Hey, sunshine.” Gilbert gently slapped his fingers against the Spaniard’s cheek. “How are your hands?”

Antonio blinked slowly. He felt his eyelashes whisper against each other. “What hands?”

The Prussian laughed. “Good man. And they say drugs are bad.”

 

Antonio stayed at the warehouse for several weeks, while Abel treated his hands and Gilbert’s snuff treated the pain. _Don’t take too much,_ the Prussian warned him, over and over. _If you build up a tolerance, you’re fucked._ So Antonio took only what was offered to him. He thought his days would be empty without gambling in the casinos, but instead he enjoyed lively conversations with Gilbert, Abel, Elizabeta, and Francis. Antonio found a fellow lover of cards in the Frenchman; Antonio helped tighten his shuffles and fingerwork. They enjoyed music, drinks, and many laughs together. And when the Russians came to tell him they’d finished his bordello and it was time to fill it with whores, Antonio told Gilbert he was done living in the warehouse, and done with snuff.

“No more,” he said. “Abel told me my hands are mostly mended. I don’t need any more snuff.”

Gilbert looked dubious. “Mended? Can you move them?”

Antonio lifted his gloved hands and wiggled his fingers. Well, more accurately, his brain sent the message of wiggling to his fingers. Said appendages managed only a slight, erratic twitching. (Needless to say, Abel had helped him put on the gloves.)

Gilbert’s mouth pressed thin, thinking the same thing Abel had told Antonio: _nerve damage._ Bones could grow back together and skin could scar over, but nerves? Nothing could be done for them.

“Just wait.” Gilbert went upstairs, banged around with something for a while, then came back down and proffered a little silver box. Antonio took it as carefully as he could, and after a moment of trying he managed to unclasp and open it. Inside was enough snuff to last a lifetime.

“A few months’ worth,” said Gilbert. “Or a year, maybe, depending on how many times you take it. I don’t expect you to need it all. Just so you can wean yourself off.”

Antonio closed the lid, smiling. “You don’t think I can go hot turkey?”

“It’s _cold_ turkey, you madman.” Gilbert hooked an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his hair. “And I know how good you are at resisting temptation. You need religion.”

Antonio laughed, squirming out of the other man’s grasp. “That’s where I’m going. Finding angels for my church. You should come see it.”

“Nein, I’ll catch fire.” Gilbert’s smile faded into a serious expression, his eyes intense as always, full of so many emotions none could be singled out. “Don’t be a stranger, ja?”

“I won’t.” Antonio pulled Gilbert into a hug and whispered, “Gracias.”

Gilbert slapped the Spaniard’s back in a very manly fashion and replied, “De nada,” with purposefully terrible pronunciation.

When the Spaniard was gone, Abel and Elizabeta stepped up beside Gilbert. “That was an awfully emotional parting,” remarked the Hungarian.

Gilbert shrugged and turned away. “That’s the Spanish for you.”

 _And the Germans,_ thought Abel and Elizabeta, but they said nothing. Just exchanged amused smiles and followed their leader back inside.

 

It took slightly longer than planned to fill all twelve bedrooms of the bordello, though not for lack of applicants. As soon as news spread that a gorgeous Spaniard had opened a gorgeous bawdy horse, whores from all over the island flocked. Antonio knew some of them already—as did Francis, who assisted with the auditions. Antonio wanted the best of the best. They had to make money, that was the bottom line. If it was his venture alone, he would have felt much guiltier for turning so many people away. But he had two nerve-damaged reminders that the vast, vast majority of money made here would not be going to him. He was barely paid more than the angels, some of whom could make the exact same amount working street beats. _But you won’t get room and board out there,_ Francis pointed out to them. _You won’t be warm and dry out there._

It was Francis who introduced the Vargas brothers. “You can’t have a bordello full of women,” he said. “There are the unfortunately boring ones out there, but more men than you might think have tastes like ours. You must cater to all.”

Antonio wasn’t sure how Gilbert’s tastes went, but he was glad to find another who swung both ways in Francis. The Frenchman claimed to be attracted to beauty, regardless of who wore it. Antonio liked brown hair, brown or green eyes, earth tones that reminded him of warmth and home. He did enjoy the slopes and valleys of a woman’s body, but there was nothing wrong with a more masculine landscape.

The Italian brothers seemed to be the best of both worlds. Sixteen and seventeen, they were fresh off the boat and sounded like it. Neither had more than a few handfuls of French, but by some miracle of Fate they both spoke Spanish.

“Our mama,” said Feliciano. He was younger, smaller, paler. “She was from Valencia.”

Antonio wasn’t one hundred percent sure about hiring boys so young, but Lovino convinced him. Golden skin, chocolate hair, wide hips swishing as he sauntered up to Antonio and said, “We’ve been in this business longer than you. We know how to make men feel good.”

He doubted Feliciano shared that knowledge, but Francis squeezed his shoulder, smiling. “They know how to put on a show.”

Feliciano winked flirtatiously, then gave a shy smile. This was his magic trick: no one could tell if he was faking the lust, or the innocence. Beside him, Lovino put a hand on his hip and arched a fine eyebrow at Antonio.

And so Lovino and Feliciano Vargas joined Laura, Eva, and the other angels at St. Raphaela’s.

 

Antonio had no intention of opening that silver box.

It wasn’t because his hands hurt. They didn’t hurt, apart from a vague ache when they were cold. But they were—numb. They were mindless. He couldn’t control them. It was the most alienating sensation he’d ever felt. He could hold a spoon, but he couldn’t keep it steady enough to eat with it. Often, he dropped things for no reason. He couldn’t button his trousers. He couldn’t even count out the money the bordello was earning—which was, by the way, quite a lot.

It wasn’t physical pain that opened the box. It was frustration, it was helplessness, it was uselessness. Even as he picked up the box sometime between midnight and true morning, it shook in his hands. Tears burned his cheeks. _You are worthless,_ said his ugly, scarred, trembling fingers. _You are nothing._

Lovino found him lying on the floor in a puddle of drool, brown dust all over his face and down his shirt. Antonio felt as though he had sunk down into the dark shell of himself; the numbness of his hands had spread to his whole body. Lovino’s eyes sparkled and swirled in front of him. Beautiful lips moved, but Antonio couldn’t hear their words. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t even know if he was alive or not.

Cold water splashed his face.

Muffled, he heard Lovino say, “Antonio? Hello? Are you dying or what?”

 _Frigid_  water.

Antonio spluttered, blinking water out of his eyes because he couldn’t lift his arms to wipe his face. He was in the bathroom attached to his private room, lying on the tiles, and Lovino stood over him with a third glass of water in his hand.

The Italian crouched down, helped Antonio drink. As the Spaniard swallowed, Lovino asked, “This is about your hands, isn’t it?”

Antonio could only nod.

Lovino gently picked up one of Antonio’s hands. He felt the scars, the knuckles, the crooked bones. He frowned lightly, then said, “Well. How about this. I’ll be your hands, and instead of trying to kill yourself with snuff, we can just work together. We can help each other.”

The words took a while to slip inside his ears and solidify in his brain, but once they did, Antonio said thickly, words slurred, “You don’t have to help me.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up. What do you think I am, heartless? Bastard.” He offered a hand. “Make up your mind, or I’m going back to bed. Partners?”

Antonio tried to lift his hand, but it flopped limply into his lap. Lovino took it and shook it.

And so it was. Lovino helped him count money, make notes in the books, write letters, cast account. He helped him tidy the place (all the angels soon pitched in for that, taking it in shifts). He helped him cook, he helped him eat. And, most of all, he helped Antonio learn to be helped. All of those things were humiliating at first, but Lovino had a way of making them commonplace. Usually, with sharp words. _Oh, stop whining and let me button your shirt, don’t be such a child._ It was a bigger deal for Antonio to reject the help, so he accepted it. He quickly learned, too, that every thorn from Lovino had a rose attached somewhere. It was just a matter of finding the petals.

Neither of them were surprised when Lovino slipped into the Spaniard’s private room one night. He helped him with everything else—what was one more way of giving relief? What _did_ surprise them was the sparks that came from their joined lips, like struck flint, and how when they moved together, sitting up as if kindling a flame in the space between their crossed bodies, Antonio groaned, “Te amo,” and Lovino gave no hesitation to his response: “Ti amo.”

 

Of course, the story of the pimp is not over yet, but the story of his hands has a happy ending.

The story of the broken hearts does not.

 

Feliciano Vargas was not an unhappy person. He found joy in small things: the smiling curls of pasta, the ladybug buttons on a little girl’s red slicker, the sweet syrup on the waffles Laura made for Sunday breakfast. He loved living with the other angels; he even loved working for Antonio, who was the kindest man Feliciano had ever received wages from. He didn’t even really mind the work itself. He’d been broken in long ago. Sex wasn’t hard work, by any means. It didn’t wear out your spine, feet, hands, or eyes. It was, as an Englishman would say, _a damn sight better than killing yourself at the foundry._

But when the people he cared about were unhappy, it hurt Feliciano more than his own negative feelings did.

More than once, he heard Antonio taking to Gilbert or Francis about a certain someone. It was always just out of earshot. Feliciano found himself walking into the room, only to have the conversation fall away. Gilbert would start to joke, or Francis would compliment Feliciano’s hair. Feliciano asked Lovino if he knew what was going on, but his brother claimed to have no clue. So Feliciano, despite his late grandfather’s advice against it, started listening at doors.

“Ludwig wants to close this whole thing down,” Gilbert was saying. “It’s easier to get rid of you than gangsters or thieves. This is a barn full of cattle. Sitting ducks.”

“Don’t call them animals, please.” Antonio sounded nervous. “What do you suggest we do?”

“. . . I don’t know what the best move is, to be honest with you.”

Feliciano stifled a gasp at that. He hadn’t realized Gilbert was capable of such hesitation, indecision. But then he remembered who they were talking about. Ludwig Beilschmidt. His brother. What if Lovino was against Feliciano because of their careers, their morals? He didn’t even want to think about it. _Conflict of interest_ didn’t even begin to describe the feeling.

He couldn’t expect Gilbert to do anything about the worrisome Ludwig, and Antonio wasn’t the type to go out and fight (not anymore), so Feliciano took matters into his own soft, small hands. He dressed himself up in a big hooded cape and a scarf. He was frightened of Belfaux, because he didn’t yet speak English or French, and because back then it was still rather dangerous to walk the streets, even in the daytime.

He went to the police station—a brick box in midtown—and asked the man at the front desk for Ludwig Beilschmidt. He expected to be told to wait, but instead he was let right in to the chief’s office. A surprisingly small room, just enough room for a desk and three chairs and some filing cabinets. Feliciano didn’t notice much of the decor, however; his eyes were on the man seated at the desk. There was so much of him, Feliciano wondered how he could fit in that chair, half-under that desk. His shoulders were so broad, and his chest, and his arms—and his _face_ , his jaw, and those eyes! Feliciano had never seen anything so blue.

Ludwig gestured with a huge hand to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Hello. Please, take a seat, Mr. Vargas.”

Feliciano sat down. He’d written out a script and practised it the night before, but he could barely remember his lines now. “I want to talk to you,” he said, in a stop-and-start kind of way, “about, um, about the church.”

Ludwig sat back in his chair, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “Go on.” Without looking away from the Italian, he opened a notepad, uncapped a pen and held it at the ready.

“I work at St. Raphaela’s. I’m not forced to work there, no one is. We don’t get forced into anything we don’t want to do. It’s very nice, working for Antonio.”

Ludwig’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t written anything down. “Does Antonio know you’re here?”

Feliciano shook his head.

“Why did you come here?”

“To talk to you.”

“But why?”

“So you could maybe rethink going after Antonio. He’s not bad. He cares about us a lot. I care about him, too.” Feliciano pouted. “Please don’t arrest him.”

One of Ludwig’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. “Arrest him for what?”

Feliciano ducked his chin, suddenly shy. He wouldn’t incriminate his boss and friend. He might seem dim, but he wasn’t. No one could last in this life without street smarts. He was smart enough, in fact, to know that life was generally easier if you pretended to be dafter than you actually were.

Ludwig scrutinized him for a long moment, then set his pen down. “If you aren’t going to turn yourself or anyone else in,” he said through a sigh, “you might as well just go.”

Feliciano shook his head. “I’m not turning in.” He stood up, but instead of walking toward the door, he stepped around the desk and touched his fingertips to one muscular shoulder. “But I wish I didn’t have to leave so soon. I’d like to see more of you.”

Ludwig stared at the Italian. Never before had there been a more damnably sexy manifestation of innocent seduction. It was genuine, too, that was the kicker. This wasn’t a slut pretending to be coy, the school girl, the choir boy. This was—bad. It was bad enough that he couldn’t ethically get information on the damn bordello, but it would be infinitely worse to get tangled up in it personally. Ludwig didn’t believe in going undercover, or he would have done it months ago. He didn’t believe two wrongs made a right. Lying to liars was still lying. Gilbert claimed Ludwig saw the world in black and white, but Ludwig failed to see what was wrong with that when the alternative was indecipherable greys.

“No,” said Ludwig, gently brushing Feliciano’s fingers from his shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Aww.” Feliciano’s pout deepened. “Please? We can’t even get tea?”

“Nein.”

 

Feliciano couldn’t have said why he was drawn to Ludwig. Perhaps because he was handsome. Perhaps because he was a little brother, too. Perhaps because he was a wounded soul, similar and different to Antonio, and the Vargas brothers both held an intense compassion for those in need of comfort.

Plus—truth be told—the life of a whore could be rather dull. Chief Ludwig did provide a certain amount of entertainment for young Feliciano. So he returned to the police station every few months and continued to request tea.

For the first year, saying no was a bit hard.

For the second, it was difficult.

By the third, it was impossible.

“Fine,” said Ludwig at last, relenting to the Italian lying over his desk. “We can get tea.”

“Yay!” Feliciano leapt up, absolutely delighted. “Thank you!”

“Uh . . . You’re welcome?”

 

Tea: sitting in the back of an expensive café on the French shore so no one would recognize Feliciano.

Tea: watching his little fingers peek out from the sleeves of his overly large rain coat to wrap around a small thick cup the color of a robin’s egg.

Tea: trying not to lose himself in those amber eyes, brighter than the low-hanging lamps above, warmer than the coffee in his mug.

Tea: listening to Feliciano talk about the world like it wasn’t a place of good and bad, of terrible choices, but instead a curious voyage of happy and, at times, unhappy coincidences.

Tea: witnessing the heartstopping sight of Feliciano spilling sugar onto the table and wetting a fingertip to enjoy a taste of the scattered sweet before meeting Ludwig’s gaze with his lips still closed around his finger.

Tea: standing up so quickly that his head almost knocked the low-hanging lamp out of its fixture.

Tea: discovering the miracle of Feliciano Vargas’s laugh.

 

He supposed love had always been a possibility, but never one he had ever taken seriously. Moving back to Germany was a possibility, too, but it wouldn’t happen. He knew it wouldn’t. Why?

His life.

His job.

His brother.

There had been a time, once, when those were all the same thing.

He couldn’t tell if he missed it or not.

 

Both of them being working men, and their relationship being so hush-hush, they saw each other seldom. A date every four months or so was the norm, with Feliciano explaining the time spent away as spa holidays with Arthur. Arthur and Lovino were the only ones who knew about the Ludwig situation. Lovino because Feliciano was physically incapable of keeping a secret from his brother for so long, and Arthur because—as far as the angels of St. Raphaela’s were concerned—Arthur Kirkland could be trusted with absolutely anything. He had proven himself to be maternal, protective—fiercely so. He swore that he wouldn’t tell a soul.

Lovino did not.

It was a battle of loyalties. He loved his little brother, but he loved Antonio as well. He had to keep them both safe. He had to keep himself safe, too—and that might as well extend to all the angels. Lovino didn’t have a single sliver of trust for a police officer, even if it was Gilbert’s brother. (Truth be told, Lovino had never felt completely comfortable with Gilbert or Francis.) Lovino knew his brother. Smart, sassy at times, but he was a fool to think himself honestly in love with that German. Who knew what he might be driven to tell him? That was all Ludwig was after, as far as Lovino was concerned. Confessions, and free sex. But still, he held back from telling Antonio, hoping that Feliciano would lose interest. _Just infatuation,_ prayed Lovino. (Arthur would have prayed, too, for uncomplicated love, but by then he knew such things to be fairy tales.)

For four years, Feliciano and Ludwig spent four or five nights together per annum. They were admirably careful. Miraculously careful, even. Ludwig told no one. Feliciano told only who he trusted.

Therein lay his mistake.

 

A black envelope sat on Ludwig’s desk one morning. No address, no seal. No letter inside, either. Just a picture.

Through his bedroom window. Between the curtains.

Feliciano on his hands and knees, fingers fisted in the blankets, face tipped up and contorted by pain and pleasure. Ludwig behind him, hands squeezing his hips, lips rounded to groan the last syllable of his name. Their love and lust, the animal truth of them, in damned black and white.

On the back of the photograph, in red ink: _Stay away from the Angels—or you’re going to Hell._

Ludwig put the picture back into the envelope. Then he opened a desk drawer, put it in the very back, and closed the drawer. And then he sat there, the rainstorm outside mirrored inside him, until Feliciano pranced into his office, even giddier than usual.

“Hi, Ludwig!” he chirped, slipping off his hood. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! Guess what I have—”

“Stop,” said Ludwig, voice thin.

Feliciano paused, grin faltering. “What?”

“Stop,” said Ludwig, harder now, “lying to me. Stop _conning_ me. This was all just a setup, wasn’t it? Just a way to get job security.”

His harsh tone made the Italian cringe. His smile was gone now, eyes wide in frightened confusion. “W-What are you talking about? I’m not—”

“Don’t play coy,” growled Ludwig. “You’ve been doing that all along, haven’t you? But I thought . . . for years, I thought . . .” He stopped talking. He was going to tear up if he continued.

Feliciano _did_ tear up. “Ludwig, w-why are you doing this?”

“This was a mistake. A bad idea from the start.” The police chief stood up, walked past the angel, and opened the office door. “I have work to do. Please leave.”

The look of utter heartbreak in those amber eyes would haunt him until the day he died.

Feliciano walked out on trembling legs. He expected the door to slam, but it swung shut softly behind him. Somehow, that was worse.

 

Feliciano didn’t go to the bordello. He went to the flat on Rook Street.

Arthur opened the door to a red-eyed, weeping boy absolutely drenched from the downpour outside. “Good heavens,” said Arthur, “come in, before you get pneumonia.”

The thief got him out of his wet clothing and settled the pair of them on a sofa with a cup of tea each and a blanket wrapped around Feliciano, who reached into his pocket and offered Arthur a tiny velvet box.

Arthur took it, popped it open to verify that the silver band was still inside, and said, “I thought you were giving this to—”

An agonized sob tore from Feliciano’s throat: _“H-He didn’t wa-ant it!”_

With that, Feliciano buried his face in Arthur’s shirt, bawling. Arthur held him with one arm, the other still awkwardly holding his cup of tea, which he could no longer lean forward to set on the coffee table. “Oh, I’m sorry, lad,” he murmured, because he was genuinely sorry, but he wasn’t exactly shocked. Love existed, but happy endings didn’t. “I’m so sorry.”

Francis came home an hour later to find Feliciano curled up on the couch, his head in Arthur’s lap, dead asleep. Arthur himself had been dozing, but the entrance of Francis woke him. He wasn’t in the mood for arguments. He kept his eyes closed, his head leant back.

Francis began a greeting, but stopped when he caught sight of the sleepers. He stood before them, observing their peaceful faces a moment. Then he leant forward to lightly kiss Feliciano’s forehead, the kiss of a father to a son at bedtime. A pregnant pause followed this. Arthur fought the temptation to hold his breath or open his eyes.

A tender, barely-there kiss was placed on Arthur’s forehead.

If not for the bandages around his chest, Arthur’s heart would have leapt right out.

He waited until he heard the bathroom door close and the bath start to run before he opened his eyes. Feliciano breathed softly, cheeks pale, eyelids red and puffy. Arthur gently stroked the angel’s hair. _Oh, love,_ he thought. _You wicked, wicked thing._


	7. Chapter 7

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**ROOK STREET**

Alfred arrives at the thieves’ flat nice and early the following morning. He knocks on the door, stands and listens to the light patter of rain outside and the slow jazz that’s still playing in the basement. He can’t stop thinking about last night. He didn’t drink enough to cloud his judgement—he doesn’t have to control everything, just himself at all times—but he had enough beer to soften the evening into a friendly, fuzzy glow. They had several games of poker, betting pocket change and IOUs, and it actually reminded Alfred of the games the police academy boys would play in their off-hours. He quite enjoyed the camaraderie, the banter around the table (stronger accents and sharper wits than at the academy). Antonio didn’t play, but he coached Alfred from the sidelines when he admitted he’d never played stud. Despite the help, Arthur ended up winning, but instead of taking the pot, he left it on the table and stood. _Do with it what you will,_ he said. _You have my blessing._ That got some snickers and smirks at Alfred, but he laughed them off and watched Arthur walk away to sit with Gilbert on one of the sofas. Alfred couldn’t really hear them, and he’s no expert at reading lips, but it sure looked like Gilbert said _Sorry._

When Alfred asked Arthur why he hadn’t taken the pot on their way out, Arthur told him, “I have no interest in taking money from those who cannot spare it.” There was a flaw in that logic (how could he be sure the people at the market could spare their change?) but he went on before Alfred could point that out: “Besides. I hate poker.”

Alfred laughed out loud at that. “If you hate it, why do you play it?”

“Because it trains the face to give nothing away, and the mind to balance detailed information.” He sucked on his cigarette, blew smoke over their heads. “And because I’m bloody good at it.”

“Très humble,” slurred Francis, following them out. He’d drunk enough for himself and Arthur over the course of the evening—and perhaps he _had_ drunk the Englishman’s share, because it occurs to Alfred now that Arthur didn’t swallow a drop of alcohol last night.

The minutes stretch. Alfred bangs his fist against the door. He could probably kick it in, if he really wanted to. It’s a deadbolt, but the door looks as old as the building. He jiggles the knob, to test its sturdiness.

The door swings open.

Alfred stands motionless in surprise for a moment, then steps in and closes the door behind him. He’s about to call out when a door opens, revealing a sleepy-eyed Arthur. Alfred thought his hair was messy yesterday, but now he sees that was messy-on-purpose. This is flat on one side, jagged on the other, and pointing true north on top. Alfred can’t help but smile at it, and at his pajamas, which are silk, striped, and bright pink.

“What,” says Arthur, voice thin as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, “are you doing here so early?”

“It’s eight o’clock. I haven’t slept in past eight since I _was_ eight.”

Arthur scowls, but it’s like a growl from a kitten. “I didn’t ask about your misfortunes, I asked why you’re here at this ungodly hour.”

“I’m here for training.” He leans his shoulders back against the door. “I didn’t realize you liked pink.”

“I don’t.” He plucks absently at the silk. “They’re Francis’s.”

“Do you share a bed as well as a closet? I only see one bedroom door.”

Arthur bristles. “I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”

Alfred shrugs. “Just being curious.”

“Yeah, well, look where that got the cat.” Arthur stalks over to the kitchenette, fixes himself a spot of tea. “And I don’t call that curiosity, I call that you nosing about in my business like a truffling boar.”

Alfred laughs. “Are you trying to call me fat?” He walks over, takes Arthur’s wrist. “I’m all muscle, baby. Feel.”

“Would you stop touch—” Arthur’s protest breaks off as his fingers trace the outlines of Alfred’s muscled abdomen through his shirt. Arthur’s thick eyebrows rise, and Alfred smirks. The Englishman looks up at him with something dark and intimate in his eyes. “Do you feel that?” he whispers.

Alfred’s smirk widens. “Yeah, I feel your hand.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, and Alfred yelps, jumping back. “What the hell—did you just pinch my ass?”

Arthur holds up his other hand, grasping the American’s wallet. “You want training? Step One: Pay attention.” He stirs milk into his tea, then holds up the wallet and the spoon. “Your attention can only be in one place at once. If you’re thinking about something while you’re driving, you never remember the scenery from that drive, do you? Your mind focuses on one thing.” He abruptly tosses both the spoon and the wallet at Alfred, who reaches out wildly but catches only the wallet; the spoon clatters loudly on the floor. Arthur looks mildly impressed. “You have good reflexes. But you still proved my point.”

“So, when you’re stealing from someone, you have to distract them. I knew that. Common sense.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Gold star. But you—”

“Putain de _merde,_ ” groans Francis, loudly, from the bedroom. “Get out of here! Throw the kitchen around outside.”

Alfred raises his eyebrows at Arthur, who takes an irritated sip of tea and says, “Meet me in the alley.”

 

“Why did you tell Francis I was a duke?” asks Alfred, ten minutes later. “And what is a duke?”

“A duke is a role played in a pickpocket crew.” Arthur is circling Alfred slowly, hands behind his back, appraising every detail of him. “The steer gets the mark in place. The stall holds them there. The shade distracts them. The wire makes the steal. And the duke runs away with it.”

“Complicated.” Alfred turns his head to watch the Englishman. The director has done this before, but in a different way. Her gaze viewed him as something to be devoured; Arthur’s views him as a puzzle to be solved. “What does the cannon do?”

Arthur stops in front of him. “All of it.” He lifts his chin. “By yourself.”

“Oh.” Alfred rubs the back of his neck. “Well, shit.”

“Yes, you are.” Arthur shakes his head. “It took me five years doing it every day to become a cannon, and I’m expected to train off your _rust_ in a few, what, weeks?”

 _Me and my big mouth._ “Listen, I’m sorry—”

Arthur holds up a pale hand. “If I can’t fence it, I don’t want it. No one buys apologies.” He turns around. “Now. Steal the wallet in my pocket.”

Clumsy fingers probe.

“My _God_.” Arthur whirls around. “I told you to take the wallet, not my bloody temperature!”

Alfred looks apologetic, then defiant. “Well, that’s payback for pinching me. Now we’re even.”

Arthur turns round again, glaring at the rubbish bins. “Again.”

For the first hour, Alfred learns all the different ways Arthur can insult his hands. Too big, too clunky, too daft. But he does teach him, in between. _Don’t reach in like you’re blind and you’re feeling your way around a room. You know what’s in there. Get in, get it, get out. That’s it._ Then Alfred learns the proper angle to pull the wallet out. _Go with the movement of the body. And keep moving yourself as well. If you stay still, everyone will be looking at you. A sore thumb._ It’s the kind of information overload that overwhelmed some junior agents in the early days. They never got officially inducted. Couldn’t hack it. But Alfred didn’t drop out then, and he won’t now. Anything can be learned and mastered with enough practise.

“So who taught you all this?” asks Alfred, pacing along beside Arthur to practise bumping. “Francis?”

“Most of it.” Arthur staggers a little, rubs his arm. “You’re supposed to nudge me, not take me down. Know your own strength.”

“Sorry.” He brushes past more gently this time. “Who taught you, besides Francis?”

Arthur says nothing, seemingly lost in thought.

Alfred tilts his head, recalling Gilbert’s words. “Was it your father?”

Arthur turns to stand in front of him so abruptly Alfred stumbles backward. Intense green eyes stare up at him; his voice has gone unnervingly calm. “Let’s establish something. It’s called a need-to-know basis. Do they have those in America?”

Alfred really, really isn’t a fan of the tone. “Yeah.”

“Excellent, because I’d hate to find another thing to teach you when just this one thing is already giving you so much difficulty.” He turns away, flicks a hand. “Again.”

 

**MIDTOWN**

“You need to have as much control over your eyes as you do over your hands. And you need to control the eyes of others even more.”

Alfred can’t tell if Arthur is messing with him or not. It’s been a week of training, and so far all Alfred has learned is that a) Arthur is a walking mouthpiece, and b) pickpocketing is a terrible job. Not just for the infuriating levels of finesse required. The fact that Alfred is learning how to hurt people has been prickling under his skin the past few days. Learning to fight, shoot, detain—those are skills that are supposed to be used in self-defense. For a good purpose, even when they do cause harm. But what good purpose does picking pockets serve?

“Jones, are you paying attention?”

They’re walking down the main street of midtown. At noon, it’s positively streaming with shoppers. Alfred is supposed to be looking at them all and figuring out where their valuables are, but instead he looks and sees the hard work they’ve done to earn the money in their pockets, the hungry families they have to feed at home. What if his mother got pickpocketed? She only has two rings: her wedding ring, and a little diamond Alfred got her for Mother’s Day after the mobster bust. Alfred looks at the thief walking beside him and is, in that moment, incredibly tempted to punch him in the jaw.

Out of nowhere, the thunder of a pistol and the crash of a window shattering. Glass falls on them; Alfred shoves Arthur behind him without thinking. The window was part of the Royal Belfaux Bank, inside of which there is a man in a balaclava waving a gun at the tellers.

Before Alfred can even think back to the proper protocol for a hostage situation, Arthur climbs in through the broken window. Alfred’s heart leaps into his mouth, and he hurries after him, tries to grab him, but it’s too late.

“Against the walls!” shouts the robber in an English shore accent. “Everyone back off against the walls!” He jabs the gun at the tellers. “Notes in the bag! No coins, just paper!”

Arthur steps into the middle of the room. “Sorry to interrupt, gent, but I think I can offer you a better deal.”

The robber aims at Arthur, but the last word gains his interest. “The fuck you on about?”

Arthur’s voice is as friendly and calm as if he’d stumbled across an old friend at the grocer—or, indeed, at the bank. “Whoever’s paying you to do this, how much cut do you get?”

“How d’you know—”

“Your hand is shaking enough that you’re either drugged or this is your first time, and since I can see the color in your eyes, I suspect the latter. Someone would have told you to ask for paper because it weighs less, even though it’s more profitable on a large scale to steal coins and melt them down. But I digress. From the top, shall we? What is your cut?”

The tellers, the customers along the walls, and Alfred all stare at Arthur, then at the robber, who replies reluctantly, “. . . He said I’d get nowt if it came under a dime.”

Arthur tuts. “Well, that’s hardly a smart deal to make, especially robbing on the weekend. You’re not even in one of the back rooms. You can’t expect to strike gold waving a pistol at innocent bystanders.”

The robber’s arm hesitates, then lowers as he considers the words.

Arthur paints a smile on his lips. “Thank you. Notice how the air seems infinitely more breathable when a gun is no longer being pointed? Lovely. So, as I was saying. The one who hired you is clearly daft, and if the police or the Nachtadlers heard about him, they’d both be quite upset. How about this: you let the bank keep their money, you leave the gun on the floor, and you go to Gilbert Beilschmidt on your knees. Tell him I sent you and tell him who hired you, and he’ll pay you for your trouble.”

The robber sets down the gun as if glad to be rid of it and asks, “Who are you?”

Arthur holds out a delicate hand. “Arthur Kirkland. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The robber shakes his hand gratefully and scurries out. Arthur glances back at Alfred, gestures to the gun. “Would you mind picking that up and giving it to the kind tellers? I think they could use the protection.”

Alfred can do nothing else. The customers go up in applause, and Alfred joins in. Arthur glances at them all, then gives a sheepish nod and walks out. Alfred follows him, leaving the tellers to call the police.

“That was incredible,” says Alfred, lengthening his stride to keep up with Arthur’s hurried pace. “And crazy. You have no training—I mean, Jesus, he could’ve shot you right there!”

Arthur smiles faintly. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

“I’ll say! What if you died?”

“Then I’d be dead? That’s the thing about cons. We endeavor to leave no one bereft when we die. It’s more courteous than most people. If I die, no one will care.”

“Of course people will care. You have lots of friends,” says Alfred. “We would care.”

Arthur slows, arching an eyebrow. “Are you my friend, Jones?”

Alfred blinks. “Well, sure. Am I not?”

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “I suppose.”

Police sirens a few streets over; they pick up the pace again. “Was any of that stuff you said to him true?” asks Alfred. “About Gilbert paying him for his trouble?”

Arthur considers. “Gilbert will shoot him. Does that count as payment? In bullets?”

Alfred shakes his head. “You’re something else.”

But it’s not a bad something, even though Alfred knows it probably should be. Arthur sings the same siren song that Belfaux does, but Alfred can’t hear it properly. He knows Arthur is a dragon, but is it possible he’s a princess awaiting rescue, as well? Alfred doesn’t know what the protocol for that one is.

_How do you save somebody from themself?_

 

**DOWNTOWN**

The lessons, though Arthur gives no indication of it, go shockingly quickly. Arthur’s training didn’t go nearly as swiftly, and he’s tempted to be irritated by that. Alright, he is irritated by it. But he also can’t help but admire Alfred’s devotion. Half of Arthur’s lessons, in retrospect, ended in Francis saying _We’ll continue this later. Go calm yourself down._ Failure has always frustrated Arthur, perhaps more than is necessarily healthy (he represses it now, which is arguably even less healthy). But Alfred doesn’t let failure bother him. He doesn’t even let Arthur’s barbs bother him. He just keeps trying until he gets it. “You’re the type of person who hits their head against a brick wall until they go right through, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. Hundredth time’s a charm.” Said with such a wide smile that Arthur wondered if his dedication was borne of obsession.

“You never lose sight of the goal, hm? Is it the American in you? Patriotic perseverance?”

Alfred laughed. “I prefer star-spangled stubbornness, myself.”

Arthur _almost_ laughed, but he kept a straight face, even though it hurt. He risked a glance at Alfred, and that crinkle-eyed grin was so infectious he just had to smile back. His lips did it of their own accord. For a second, he met Alfred’s gaze, and his whole body felt it. _Damn it, stop,_ he thought. _Don’t. Don’t go there. Don’t. Please._

Walking together now at the end of the second week, whenever their eyes bounce off each other, both of them think: _You shouldn’t trust him. You shouldn’t want him. He’s the enemy. Remember the deal._

The deal was proposed by Alfred. “So we can work together smoothly. We don’t have to hold hands, but let’s try not to step on each other’s feet. I just want a promise of truthfulness. You have to tell me what I ask of you. No secrets. No lies, absolutely no lies. That’s not too hard, is it? Deal?”

Arthur looked at his extended hand, then up at his face. “What happens if I go against the deal?”

Alfred’s smile faded. “Then I arrest you.”

Arthur observed those blue eyes, holding such honesty. So simple, so genuinely simple. When Arthur looked in the mirror that night, he saw every layer he has placed over his emotions, every mask he wears, every invented truth. It’s so different than the purity of Alfred that Arthur wondered if, were all of that excess stripped away, there would be just a tiny kernel of real soul left. Or, what if it isn’t excess? What if Arthur has been conning the world for so long that he has nothing genuine left inside? What if the masks have been on for so long that they’ve become embedded into his skin, and if he were to pry them off, they’d rip free to reveal a limp puppet full of straw?

Arthur shook Alfred’s hand. “Deal. Honesty is key.”

“That’s right. Honesty is key.”

They’re walking downtown. Arthur doesn’t prefer one part of Belfaux over another (though the English Shore is admittedly an eyesore), but he knows most people prefer downtown’s entertainment district, and he can see why. More lights, more people, more things in general. Cars and horses and bicycles in the streets, striders and beggars and dancers on the sidewalks, everything advertising everything else. _Come tonight! Come next week! Bigger, better, soon!_ Nothing ever seems to be happening right now, it’s always soon. (Arthur appreciates this. He likes having time to prepare, to plan.)

There are six casinos along the main street—including the Diamond Kite—and others dotted throughout the district. Everywhere, corruption oozes, a blackness that no number of neon lights could illuminate. Hired cardsharps with velvet fingers and bullets for eyes guard the fortunes in the casinos, letting gamblers raise the stakes before using those stakes to stab any hearts or wallets still holding blood or money. No one is allowed to win, unless a deal has been made beforehand.

There are more people downtown than anywhere else in Belfaux. Because of this, there are more homeless people, as well. They cluster in alleyways, some bold enough to stand on the sidewalk. None hold signs—cardboard doesn’t last long in Belfaux’s weather—but most have tin cans. They hold them out to passersby with grimy hands, a hopeful gesture offset by the desolation in their eyes. Arthur gives them sympathetic glances as he passes, but there’s no guilt in his expression. He feels for them, but they aren’t his responsibility. Alfred looks apologetic, but he doesn’t offer them anything either. There are too many, and if you help one, how can you not help the others? Those who do put coins in cups rarely do it to be kind; it’s just a fee to have the homeless taken off their conscience. Everyone is looking to make a profit, and profit is like a joke: it’s always at someone’s expense.

Arthur leads Alfred through the people-clogged streets and into an even more tangled mess of humans—a club that Alfred can’t read the name of (it’s French). Piano and accordion argue joyfully. Cigarette smoke swirls around the ceiling, mirroring the loose skirts on the dance floor below. Almost immediately, Alfred is hailed by a trio of trollops. One lady in a faux-fox cape calls, “Howdy Mister,” in an atrocious American accent.

Arthur stands close, mouth over Alfred’s ear. “Here is your test. If you can pick pockets here, you can pick pockets anywhere. See only the important details. Wallets. Shiny things.”

Alfred turns to look at him, but the Englishman is already gone, twirling one of the ladies and dancing surprisingly well. Belfaux’s most popular dance is the java, and that’s what Alfred gets pulled into now. If a waltz could get hyped up on caffeine, that’s what the java is. The woman drapes herself over Alfred, arms around his shoulders; his hands find their place on her waist. They rotate quickly, wagging back and forth like a happy hound’s tail. Alfred almost laughs at some of the women—heads on men’s shoulders, feet tapping from loose legs, they look drunk. _Maybe they are._ Some ladies dance alone, singing in French to the musicians and slapping their hips with the beat.

Somehow, Arthur catches his eye across the dance floor, electrifying green. An eyebrow arches meaningfully. _Stealing, remember?_

_Yes, stealing. That’s right._

Alfred dances a few more minutes, doing his best to look into the swirling, hopping dancers. It’s like gazing into a kaleidoscope. Following one element means losing track of all the others. He doesn’t know how Arthur can look at all of these people—or even all the people in the market—and make sense of it. Can that really be learned as a skill? Or is there something in the wiring of the Englishman’s brain that most others don’t have? There is the whole man-with-breasts thing . . . but maybe that’s a problem with his body, not his mind.

“You look serious,” says the woman dancing with him. “Let me kiss this away.”

Full lips find his right cheek, then his left. Alfred’s hand squeezes her hip—she giggles—and the other slips into her shoulder bag. Sticky coins in his palm, slipped into his pocket while she kisses him on the mouth. She tastes like she smells, perfume and brandy. She goes in for another kiss, but Alfred spins her before she can.

Just like that. He has her money. He is a criminal.

_. . . Kinda anticlimactic, huh?_

Other girls go twirling, spinning away from their partners like tops from children. They all match back up with different men, and to Alfred’s surprise he ends up with not a different lady but with Arthur. The Englishman’s arms wrap around his shoulders, and Alfred’s arms fit perfectly around his waist, hands warming the small of his back. This is the most they’ve ever touched—Arthur’s chest presses close to Alfred’s, his cheek rests on his shoulder. The music has slowed now; the java lulls from a happy wag to a content wave. Alfred can’t see Arthur’s face, but the feeling of his warm body against him, the fine blond hairs at the nape of his neck sparkling gold in the light, the smallness of him, the slope of his waist—it all makes a smile rise up from Alfred’s chest and onto his lips.

“Congratulations, Mr. Jones,” says Arthur, a bit hard to be heard through the jaunty accordion. “You’re a pickpocket.”

“A cannon?” He moves his hands ever so slightly lower.

“A cannon.” Arthur reaches back, and Alfred moves his hands back up quickly—only to have Arthur grasp his wrists and move Alfred’s hands down to cup his posterior. “Don’t half-arse it.” This draws a bubble of laughter from him. “Pun. Intended but regretted. Like me, incidentally.”

By now, Alfred can tell that Arthur is rambling like this to distract from the fact that he’s nervous—and the fact that he’s nervous about Alfred touching him makes that wall he put up weeks ago start to crumble. (If he’s honest, that wall has been doomed to fall since the beginning.) _I can’t trust him,_ thinks Alfred. _But I can still like him._

“Arthur,” says Alfred.

The thief finally lifts his head to look at him, something defensive in his eyes.

Alfred delicately kisses Arthur’s left cheek, then his right cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs, their noses brushing, “for the lessons.”

Arthur’s cheeks turn a pleasant shade of pink. He can’t meet Alfred’s gaze any longer, so he buries his face into the American’s neck instead. “There,” Alfred hears him say. “ _That’s_ how to be seductive.”

 

**ROOK STREET**

That night, after Arthur has inspected everything stolen and handed Alfred his small cut of the money, the Englishman says, “I’ll fence the rings in a few weeks and get you your pay for them. You can stay here, nights.”

It’s so out of the blue, Alfred does a double-take. “Huh?”

Arthur sits back at their tiny dining table. “You can stay here, if you want to. It’s free. I suppose your living expenses are paid for by your agency, but . . .” He shrugs, closing the little notebook he does his calculations in. “You don’t have to accept if you’d rather have a room to yourself. You’d be sleeping on the sofa. It’s really a terrible offer. Just say no and be—”

“Yes.”

Arthur looks up, surprised.

Alfred smiles. “I’ll sleep on your couch. The guys at the inn might miss me, though. I was just getting to be able to pronounce Toris’s last name.”

Before Arthur can say anything, the flat’s door bangs open and Francis and some dark-skinned woman stagger inside with the uneven gait of two intoxicated people attached at the lips. Francis doesn’t pause to greet anyone, just kisses the lady across the flat and into the bedroom. The door closes behind them.

Arthur sighs. “Well. Looks like you get the couch and I get the loveseat.”

An hour later, Alfred and Arthur are still lying there in the living room, listening to barely-hushed giggles and moans and rumbled French in the bedroom. The only light comes from the street light outside, which gives one of the windows a dull amber glow.

Alfred blinks into the gloom and asks in Arthur’s general direction, “Is this often?”

A defeated groan. “You have no idea.”

Shirtless on the couch, listening to that woman’s sounds of pleasure, Alfred can’t help but think about all the sex he’s had in the past (not a lot), and from those women his mind moves to Arthur, his breasts and his eyes and his skin. _Oh, jeez._ Alfred crosses his legs as tightly as he can and asks the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you a woman?”

Probably not the best thing to blurt out in the middle of the night, but there it is.

Arthur sounds tired. “No.”

Alfred’s silence must broadcast his curiosity, because Arthur adds, “My body is female, that’s all.”

“How long have you felt like this?”

Alfred can hear the difference in their voices now. His is low, half whisper/half mumble, and far more gravelly than Arthur’s. Arthur’s response comes through an exhale: “Oh, I was round fifteen, I suppose.”

What was Alfred doing at fifteen? Riding his mare, tending the ranch, suffering through school, enjoying summers spent with only his horses, his sheep, and his dogs. Entire weeks spent outside, the sun and the moon and the stars. The ranch seems bigger than this whole damn island.

“What was your name before?” asks Alfred. “When you were a girl?”

Arthur’s words are tense, laced with poison. “You can arrest me all you want. There is no way in hell I’ll tell you what that name was.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” says Alfred, trying to calm him. “That’s fair. I wasn’t thinking.”

After a moment, Arthur says softly, “It’s okay.”

They lie in silence for a while. The noises from the bedroom finally cease, finished with a big groan from both shagging frogs. The silence drags. Alfred’s thoughts of home tighten his chest and keep him awake, but he stays quiet, thinking Arthur has fallen asleep.

“Jones.”

Alfred glances into the dark. “What?”

A pause, the sort of pause where you can practically hear the words that want to be said lining up inside the other person’s throat, cramming in behind his teeth.

“. . . I’d like to go to sleep now,” says Arthur.

Alfred’s gentle smile is audible in his words. “Good night, Arthur.”

A tiny whisper is all that’s left. “Good night, Alfred.”


	8. Chapter 8

**_1 9 2 2_ **

 

After the first month of plays and the building of Arthur Kirkland’s identity was done, Francis announced that it was time for proper thief training to begin. He taught Arthur how to distract with a touch elsewhere, how to talk someone into doing what you wish, how to hook the pins of a lock up into place without need for a key. He taught him which back doors could be opened, which shop owners would take stolen goods or shelter a thief on the off-chance a constable or guard gave chase. He taught him how to tell the difference between paste jewels and genuine beauties. Arthur became known in their growing community of criminals—Natalya Arlovskaya’s ever-spreading web—as a man who did just about anything, so long as it didn’t involve weaponry. He fenced their stolen wares (the ones Natalya didn’t want) to Francis’s known contacts, and when none of them provided satisfactory prices, he made a few new contacts of his own. Crystals, clothes, ornaments, silverware—if he and Francis got their red hands on it, Arthur could talk someone into buying it. Even the French were more inclined to buy from the thieves, now that Arthur was around. An impeccably dressed Englishman gave the proceedings a certain, as Francis put it, je ne sais quoi. In truth, it was the old chestnut of human psychology con men so often roasted: if someone wants something, its value increases. When Arthur played the part of a high-rolling fence, with Francis his translator, ready at any moment to turn away for a better buyer, _because_ _you know, really, my time is worth more than the sum on your lips_ —how could anyone resist?

Francis had never seen anything so beautiful. Arthur was, during their performances, the best partner a man could ask for. It was just the times in between that things got . . . messy.

“You move too quickly,” said Francis, during their early lessons on sleight of hand.

“Well,” said Arthur huffily, quite the teenager when he wanted to be, “I don’t want people to see what I’m trying to hide.”

Francis shook his head. “It’s not about being invisible.” He put his hand over Arthur’s, gave it a slow magician’s wave, and moved away to reveal a red felt rose in Arthur’s palm. “It’s about shifting attention away from what you don’t want to be seen.”

Arthur looked up at him then, and Francis had to busy himself with more demonstration to keep from snorting. His new partner posed as such an unreadable, stoic gentleman—but all it took was a tiny peek of intimacy from Francis to reduce him to a blushing, doe-eyed miss. Francis was, at times, unspeakably tempted to take advantage, but he stopped himself. Arthur was too good of an asset to waste with sex. Sex, in Francis’s experience, was very much a drug: addictive, expensive, and only good in the short-term. If he had a guinea for every one-night stand who returned for an unsavory conversation about commitment, he wouldn’t have to be a thief. (Barring the obligation to Natalya and Ivan, of course.)

Overall, Francis was pleased with the outcome of his apprentice. It had been a good decision. Arthur was an excellent lockpick—arguably better at picking locks than pockets, and certainly better than Francis—and he had an eye for detail that Francis found rivaled only in his own. Plus, he was true to his word—he _was_ good at sums. Working with Arthur, the amount of money he took in didn’t just double. It tripled. But there was always a large portion that went into the lockbox under the floorboards that neither of them were allowed to touch, no matter what. That money was not for them. It was for the Russians.

“Why?” asked Arthur. “Why do they get a cut off the top? I understand that she’s a master fence, but why does she automatically get money from us?”

Francis gave Arthur the same answer he had given Gilbert and Antonio: “Because I’m indebted to Natalya. My father worked for her, and when he was killed, who took in his petit fils?”

Arthur’s brow rose in sympathy. Francis could imagine what he was picturing. A golden-haired boy sitting at some Russian dinner table, adopted and adored, taught just as Francis taught Arthur now. Not even close, but then, that’s what life was. The show put on was always better than reality.

Arthur didn’t ask about Francis’s background, and Francis returned the favor. In their world, when stories were so often written in blood, it was a politeness. Occasionally, Arthur told a story of his childhood on the English Shore, but Francis never offered him anything in return. (Both would eventually tell each other of their fathers, but not for a few years. It was impossible to lie next to someone in a dark bedroom for five years without opening your mouth and letting out things that burned to be told. In the dark, those burning secrets were much easier to tell. No one could see the smoke in your lungs, or the charcoal blackening your teeth.)

And yet, even as Francis scorned the Englishman for being so plainly infatuated, he felt something in himself slowly but surely begin to shift. This was cause for immediate concern. Francis didn’t consider himself heartless, and he didn’t want to have the reputation Natalya did—acting based on nothing but ruthless logic. _Hit them where you know it will hurt the most._ He had seen her light a pile of gorgeous paintings ablaze just because she knew it would piss off a rival fence. (Her priorities were revenge first, make money second.) She had no care at all for art, very limited compassion—limited to Ivan and Francis, as far as he could tell. Francis loved art, visual and musical, performance most of all. He had to admit, there was something artistic about Arthur Kirkland. Not according to the Englishman; Arthur had no interest in art as a hobby, though he did have a pleasant singing voice when he (rarely) let it out. There was just something about him . . . it was similar to the fire within Lovino, but not quite the same. Francis couldn’t put his finger on it, and that bothered him almost as much as his feelings.

 _Love._ How could he, Francis Bonnefoy, gentleman thief, be falling in love? Where had his only rule, his firmest policy, gone? _I have myself, fuck everyone else._ He could have sex, he could love countless bodies. But he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with the intangible, maddeningly abstract thing _inside_ the body!

He would hide it. He would be Arthur’s partner, nothing else.

That was survival.

 

While Francis was teaching Arthur the proper way to slip an undetected hand into a mark’s pocket, his go-to phrase was this: “I felt your hand.” Over and over and over again. “I felt your hand.” It became a mantra that made Arthur want to rip his hair out. “I felt your hand.” Sometimes Francis would let him get in, steal the wallet, and get out thinking he’d finally done it—and then he’d drop the bomb. “I felt your hand.”

Arthur Kirkland learned to pickpocket out of necessity, survival, all of that. He learned to master it out of spite.

Francis found it hilarious. Arthur spited that, too.

The lessons branched off once proper pickpocketing became the norm, once Arthur’s confidence was no longer faked. Francis taught him French. Arthur learned to speak it, but reading it proved difficult and writing it even moreso. _(That’s how you spell gentille? That’s two silent bloody L’s!)_ Arthur seemed convinced Francis had designed the language himself just to piss him off. “Much too elaborate,” Francis assured him. “If I wanted to piss you off, I’d just tell you I felt your hand.”

Francis taught Arthur the lifestyle of a gentleman thief. They never saw dawn; they stayed up as late into the night as they pleased and slept in until noon if they fancied. The most food they made at home was tea; they knew every waiter in every restaurant and café in the city. They had their clothes washed by a Breton laundress. They had no car of their own and strolled all over the city, only taking cabs when they were in a hurry, which was rare. They had no territory. The Nachtadlers protected them on the western half of Belfaux, and on the eastern half they were the dangerous ones. Women clambered over themselves to flirt with Francis in the middle-class pubs, and Arthur was astonished to find himself subject to the same attention. Francis laughed out loud the first time; Arthur’s eyes almost bulged out of his skull when a lady’s hand alighted on his thigh. Francis often took one to bed, but Arthur never did.

“Why don’t you enjoy yourself?” asked Francis. “They only see a man. A handsome man.”

Arthur looked startled, then flustered. “Because I’m not—I don’t have what they think I have.”

Sometimes—somehow—Francis forgot that little detail. “Oh, yes. Well, I suppose you could find yourself a lesbian.”

Arthur’s cheeks darkened, bringing out the green of his eyes. “I have no interest in lesbians, thank you.” His voice almost wobbled. “I—I prefer men, if you didn’t know.”

“Do you?” Francis feigned surprise. “I had no idea.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, and Francis laughed. It was really too easy to screw with the thief-of-all-trades. So easy, in fact, it should have been boring. _So why isn’t it?_

Goddamned love.

Francis taught Arthur how to drink, introduced him to the Grand Duke’s favorite, incredibly rich blackberry wine. They drank together for the first time at home, in the flat. This was a good thing, because Francis as well as Arthur learned something that day. Well, two things.

One, Arthur had a very low alcohol tolerance.

And two, Drunk Arthur loved to dance.

They were dancing java—pressed close, small steps, Francis’s fingers casually exploring the swell of Arthur’s arse—to the wireless radio, and Arthur became increasingly braver and hornier as the songs came and went. Finally, a slower song began to play, and their rotation slowed accordingly into more of a grind than a dance. Arthur lifted one hand to touch Francis’s stubbled jaw, and lowered the other to stroke the bulge stirring in Francis’s trousers.

The Frenchman smiled. “I felt your hand.”

Before Arthur could kiss him, Francis stepped back and added, “You don’t want this, mon ami. Damaged goods.”

Arthur couldn’t make sense of the words, or why Francis had moved away. But those were the least of his worries—why was the flat spinning? He wanted to go after Francis, but his feet knew better and took him into the bathroom, where he passed out on the tiles an hour later.

When he woke up in bed the next morning, his head hurt more than his heart, and Francis was holding out a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “You probably don’t remember last night, hm?”

Arthur took it, but didn’t drink it. “Nope,” he lied. “Don’t recall a single thing.”

 

Aside from Gilbert’s feelings for Roderich, the cons of Belfaux as a whole had a mutual loathing for the aristocrats of the city. If they had to choose the one they disliked the least, however, it would undoubtedly be Lucille Delacroix.

Lucille’s family had been wealthy since, as the Shore Brits said, _God hacked up Belfaux and spat it into the sea._ ( _God must have excellent aim_ , remarked Arthur Kirkland at some point, _for it to land perfectly in this Channel_.) Lucille’s first love, unlike the rest of her aristocratic ilk, was not money. It was gambling. She was the master of card tables, and she knew all the stats of football and cricket players, in case anyone was interested in a bet. She wagered with her maidservant whether or not it would be raining when she woke each morning. Every member of her house staff had a salary supplemented by what Lucille called soft gambling. _No harm in it,_ she claimed. _Just something to make the rainy days a bit more interesting, that’s all._

Her family, living in three mansions on the aptly named Boulevard Delacroix, disapproved of nearly everything she did. She was restless, irreverent, prone to fits of fancy most unsuited to a lady of such high standing. (England had left behind its starched classism as well as its currency.) Lucille’s family had offered her countless suitors since her débutante ball, but she’d had no time for any of them. She was banned from the whole of downtown, because it was an unsavory place and a woman like her should never go to so much as a play without a respectable gentleman’s arm to cling to. ( _My bodyguard is respectable, isn’t he?_ she asked once. Her parents seemed to think she was joking.)

Of course, the biggest rift between Lucille and her family was the fact that she supported their current Grand Duke. She heard what the people said, from the stuffy drawing rooms at uptown’s French Shore to the little shops in midtown. If a French mouth opened about Roderich, it was always the same thing. _He’s spoiled. He’s lazy. He’s a foreigner. He’s done nothing for this city._

She was not one to sit idly by. She fought back: _He was born on this island just like we were, and he speaks French better than you do. He lowered property taxes last year, if you’ll recall. And he has plans for the future. What’s your grand solution for Belfaux’s troubles?_

Sometimes, if they didn’t recognize her, they would start to fight back. But then her bodyguard would loom meaningfully and the discussion was over.

She wasn’t officially part of the government, but she assisted Roderich in things that troubled him but came easy as breathing to her, like tourism and the city’s public image. ( _We should keep an air of danger,_ she told him. Roderich’s eyes had widened. _But won’t that scare people away?_ She shrugged. _Some. Some will be even more enticed._ Roderich looked troubled. _Alright, but not too much danger. I don’t want the place to overflow with thrill-seeking Americans._ )

“I’m surprised my family hasn’t tried to pawn me off on you,” said Lucille to Roderich while they were having tea one afternoon. “We’ve known each other since we were young, they’ve had plenty of time.”

Roderich smiled ruefully. “Because my surname is Edelstein, not Arnaud.”

“That is a good thing. The Arnaud are the biggest snobs in this city. Aside from the Delacroix, of course.” She eyed him curiously, then shook her head. “I don’t know why you still wear corsetry. I wouldn’t be caught dead, now that I live in my own house. No more nagging Maman.”

Roderich shrugged. “It makes me feel . . .” His lovely gaze drifted, seeking the proper words. “. . . more myself. More secure.”

He had always seemed more of a lady than Lucille, it occurred to her, but he’d never worn anything more feminine than the corset in her presence. She often wondered if his private chambers told a more interesting story, but she had never asked. Roderich was delicate, as much as he tried to paint on an aloof face. He was the only person she didn’t press.

“Stays make me feel like a prisoner,” said Lucille. “As does this whole thing, as a matter of fact.” She gestured to the grandeur of the parlor. “Aristocrats have more rules imposed on them than any human should. High society is no more than shackles. A ball of pure gold and a chain of silver, but a ball and chain nonetheless.”

Roderich’s smile looked tired. “You would give it all up? The money, the safety?”

Lucille hesitated just a moment. “At least for a day. To see what it’s like!”

Roderich had no interest in that. Thinking of the poor slaves at the noxious foundry made him feel short of breath, and thinking of the Nachtadlers, huge red-eyed devils with black eagle tattoos . . . He was never so glad to have Basch always at his side, always ready to keep safe the fragile body Roderich had been cursed with.

Or perhaps he was blessed, as a silver-haired gangster would soon tell him. But that is a story for another time.

This time, the story happens at Lucille Delacroix’s mansion, the night before one of her famous masquerade balls.

 

Arthur Kirkland didn’t consider himself predictable. But if Francis Bonnefoy told him he couldn’t do something, you could be damned sure Arthur would go do it—just to rub it in the frog’s face. Francis was well aware of this when he said, “Natalya has a new job. She wants an heirloom given to Lucille Delacroix, an Alexandrite ring.”

(Natalya had hired eyes dotted around the mansions of uptown, all of them blackmailed into telling her the whereabouts of shiny valuables. They had several places they _could_ burgle, but Natalya was choosy with her hits. They couldn’t pull off a heist every night, because security always increased after something precious vanished. They had to wait for everyone to forget that crime could come at any time. But when Natalya wanted something, her thieves got it. No questions asked.)

Arthur coughed out some smoke. Francis had taught him how to smoke cigarettes, as well, but it was decidedly an acquired taste. “When are we pulling it?”

“We aren’t. I’ll go alone. Natalya has been very specific about the timing here. She wants it within the week, then she’s off on a trip somewhere. Meeting all of her fence friends, I presume.” Francis said all of this in rapid French, but when Arthur opened his mouth to protest, Francis added this in precise English: “You will stay home. You do not have the experience for this. I will go tonight, while everyone is distracted by preparations for the ball.”

Arthur bristled. “Experience? How will I get experience, pray tell, if I’m not allowed to try?”

Francis could always tell when Arthur was getting upset, because he whipped out saucy numbers like _pray tell._ He shook his head and said firmly, “No. Go spend the night with the Italians if you need something to do. Perhaps they will give you a discount if you keep your mouth shut.”

Arthur glared at Francis, dropped his cigarette into the Frenchman’s cup of tea, and stormed out of the flat. Off to buy a new pair of gloves and walk to la Château de Lucille Delacroix.

 

Francis was correct—the whole house was distracted by the preparations. Arthur watched from behind animal-shaped hedges in the back garden as servants scurried to and fro, stringing up streamers and setting out small glass tables on which flutes of champagne and small crustless sandwiches would sit. Arthur wished he had true darkness to hide behind, but he had to be in, out, and back before Francis left. He imagined the look of genuine surprise in those smug blue eyes. _Are you impressed?_ he would ask. _Do I have experience now?_

Arthur could feel fear chilling his hands, squeezing his stomach. _Breathe,_ he thought. _You won’t be caught. You’re a thief-of-all-trades. You’re Arthur Kirkland._

If it had to be done, Arthur Kirkland could do it.

Every servant’s back was turned. The French doors were a golden rectangle, the goal. _Get in, find the stairs. They won’t be decorating up there. Pick a door and hide behind it._

It wasn’t about being invisible. It was about distracting from the parts you didn’t want to be seen.

Right now, those parts were all of him.

Arthur slipped across the garden, avoiding the stepping stones so his shoes sunk into soft grass. He didn’t look around _(looking around draws attention!)_ and he didn’t hear any accusatory shouts behind him. Heart in his mouth, he held his breath as he stepped into the mansion. There were several passages to choose from: a hall, a second hall that he could see led through to the main foyer where more people were milling, and two narrow stairwells for behind-the-scenes servant use; one going up, one going down. He didn’t need to risk sneaking through the house to the main staircase, and he couldn’t stand still here. _Hesitation is death._ He hurried up the stairs, as fast as he could go without becoming noisy.

A lamplit hall, empty of people, several doors to choose from. Arthur was tempted to grab the first door and sink to his knees behind it. _No._ He had to keep his strength, keep his guard up, or he might not be able to summon it again. He spared a few seconds to strain his ears, listening through the roar of his blood. No talking, no footsteps up here. He stalked down the hall to the door in the very middle. The master bedroom? He listened at the door, heard nothing. He pushed the door open, scanned quickly for inhabitants, and closed the door behind him.

Arthur let out a large breath. _I’m robbing a rich lady._ He covered a grin with one gloved hand, giddiness bubbling inside him. _I’m on a heist by myself! I did it!_ He was only halfway. _Keep your head._ He took a steadying breath, put on a serious face, and began his search. He knew the ring was in here, but specifically where was bound to change. The informant claimed it was in a jewelry box on the bureau, but it wasn’t. He checked in the cabinets of the bedside tables, then in the closet. Nothing. Finally, he thought to look under the bed—and there was a lockbox.

Arthur took out his lockpick and wrench. He raked the pins; now was not the time for graceful hooking. This was an expensive lock, and he could tell it was rarely opened, because its pins were incredibly stubborn. His attention shifted from his surroundings to the lock, trying to determine which hidden pins had yet to be pushed up into place.

Distraction only lasts a moment. That’s all it took.

Footsteps outside went unheard. The door opened, and Lucille Delacroix had a spectacular view of Arthur Kirkland kneeling before her bed, poking about at her lockbox. He looked up when he heard her make an involuntary sound of shock. Wide green eyes met wide blue eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Lucille.

“Uh . . .” Arthur was frozen, and as usual, his nerves formed words: “I’m the physical manifestation of a worst-case scenario.”

Lucille wasn’t about to be tripped up by metaphor. She turned and shouted, “Call the police!”

Arthur dove for the window. It opened easily. Two storeys up. Could he jump? He peered down and felt his earlier nausea return with full force. He stumbled backward and felt the cold, hard muzzle of a pistol kiss the back of his skull.

“Don’t move,” said Lucille, voice oddly firm. “I’m not afraid to pull this trigger.”

That was how Chief Ludwig Beilschmidt found them: Lucille the Brave holding a gun to the head of Arthur the Failure who, when the uniformed man filled the doorway, closed his eyes to keep himself from bursting into tears.

 

The police station was larger than it seemed from the outside, or perhaps that was just because Arthur felt about three inches tall as he walked behind Ludwig. The chief said nothing, just led him into a tiny fluorescent-lit interrogation room with just a table and a chair on either side. _Homey_ _,_ Arthur wanted to say, but his throat was weak and the word sounded hollow even in his head. _None of that,_ he thought. _You’re a con man. Stop sniveling. It doesn’t matter what you feel. Put a mask over it and get the job done._ Arthur walked in as a meek victim and sat down as a confident, hard-eyed thief.

Ludwig sat down on the other side of the table and folded his large hands. His eyes were the most intense blue Arthur had ever seen in a human face. “So,” said Ludwig. “Do you speak English?”

“Ja.”

Ludwig’s face didn’t even change. “Please don’t be a smart-ass.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow, but the buried fear kept him silent.

“Are you affiliated with the Nachtadlers?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Ludwig gave away none of his feelings about his brother’s gang. “No.”

“Who do you work for?”

Arthur said nothing.

“You could be in prison for a year.” Ludwig leaned slightly closer. “Or you can give me information in exchange for a shortened sentence.”

Arthur considered it. Pouring out all the things he and Francis had stolen, the details about the bordello, the illegal drugs and arms Gilbert was dealing. His comrades imprisoned for who knew how long, while he went free after a few months. Even if he was somehow heartless enough to do something like that—what would be the point? Once he went free, he’d be alone. And besides.

Arthur tipped up his chin. “Cons do not, how do you say, snitch.”

Ludwig stared at him.

Arthur squinted back.

Ludwig stood up, tone weary. “Well, Mr. Kirkland, you might get parole. If you can refrain from being a smart-ass in prison.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Arthur with a sharp smile.

Ludwig looked at him, and for a moment something like pity softened his gaze. Then he shook his head and sighed. “It’s a shame that loyalty like yours couldn’t be given to people who actually deserve it.”

He left without another word. The next time Arthur smiled was nine months later.

But that, too, is a story for another time.


	9. Chapter 9

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**CHÂTEAU EDELSTEIN**

Gentlemen thieves might stay up as late as they wish, but Grand Dukes have a genteel bedtime of ten o’clock. Roderich has never stayed out late for dancing or drinks; he has no friends to do that with, since Lucille can’t be seen downtown and Basch doesn’t partake in things related to fun. Roderich’s personal sense of fun is very askew, according to a certain gangster. He enjoys music, listening to it and playing it and, once, writing it. He hasn’t put ink to scale since his father passed. He remembers sitting on the late Edelstein’s lap, watching his hands move elegantly along the black and white keys. _You have my fingers, little pianist,_ his father would say. _You’ll put beauty into the world one day._

Now Roderich looks into the music room, lit by white candles along the walls. The tiny flames reflect gold streaks in the black gloss of the piano. Roderich wishes he would get some poetic glimpse of the past, the murky ghost of his father and his childhood self leant over the keyboard. But this is real life, so there’s none of that; his imagination can’t even conjure it.

“Mein Herr?” asks Basch, standing at his side.

Roderich turns away from the music room, smiling lightly at his bodyguard. “Just reminiscing,” he says. “I can find my bedchamber, thank you. You’re free to retire.”

The Swiss man hesitates, hard-to-read gaze searching his master’s face. “You’re certain?”

“Of course.” Roderich gives his shoulder a brief pat. “Good night.”

Basch looks him up and down—entirely different from the way Gilbert would, thank goodness—before nodding. “Good night.”

Roderich is tempted to make a beeline for his bedroom, but he forces himself to walk slowly, like a respectable government leader. Once in his room, he closes the door and leans back against it, sighing in relief. No more eyes on him. No more expectations. At last, his daily hour of relaxation before sleep transports him into another day of worries.

Roderich turns on the electric lamp on his bedside table. He pulls the curtains apart and pushes the window open. It’s not raining tonight, thankfully; Gilbert is less likely to come in a downpour, not that he can be blamed for that. There’s never a guarantee that Gilbert will come on any given night. _I’m a busy man,_ he told Roderich a few months back. _Oh,_ said Roderich. _What’s that like?_

Gilbert has the sort of laugh that makes the world feel more alive. His laugh, like everything about him, urges the beholder, _Come on, look how great life is when you let yourself live it! Let’s go do something just for excitement of doing something!_

(Gilbert’s laugh would most definitely swear if it could speak, but Roderich’s mother long ago broke him of the ungentlemanly habit with a bar of Marseille soap. Yes, even his imagination is censored.)

Roderich strips himself of everything but his corset, abandoning his clothing on the floor of his walk-in closet. He takes down a hanging nightgown and slips it over his head with a grateful sigh. He poses in front of the looking-glass, daring to stick one hip out a little, tipping up his chin as if he isn’t terrified to meet his own gaze. The indigo chiffon flows loosely over his body, only hinting at what might lie beneath; any beauty is free to be imagined, and so he is infinitely prettier than he would be without the dress. He is black and white and purple—his hair, his skin, his eyes and the dress. His lips are the only other color, a tiny pink bow. He purses them, puts a hand on his jutted hip. _Oh, ye gods. I look like a powdered trull._ He loses the pose entirely and just stands there, arms folded over his flattened stomach. _All of those things people say about me. What would they say if they knew I felt this way?_ It isn’t that he wants to be a woman. It’s just that he likes to feel like something graceful, something majestic, something that matches the emotional beauty of music. Ladies are so (seemingly) effortlessly attractive. That is what he longs for.

 _This is a time for leisure,_ he reminds himself. _Stop fretting._ He tries to smile, but curled lips look as peculiar as the earlier pursed ones. _Perhaps that is my burden,_ he thinks glumly. _Perhaps it’s wrong for me to be happy when so many of my people are not._

“Knock-knock.”

He whirls around, a hand over his racing heart.

Gilbert Beilschmidt stands in the doorway of his closet, fondness softening his usually severe face. “Sorry,” he says, in German of course. “I did knock.”

Roderich deflates, eyes closing briefly. “You gave me a heart attack.”

“I have that effect on people.” Gilbert smiles, because Roderich is smiling, small but there. “How is my duchess tonight?”

The phrase, the husky dip of Gilbert’s voice, awakens Roderich’s body. He bites his bottom lip to make it redder and replies, “Lonely.”

Sometimes Gilbert acts the animal, the beast Roderich expected him to be before he knew him. Some nights, the gangster climbs through the window with pent-up aggression crackling around him; Roderich has lost three nightgowns to Gilbert’s need to sate himself in Austrian flesh. But even on those occasions, Gilbert asked first. Well, not _asked_ in so many words, but provided Roderich with fair warning, with time to say no. _I need you,_ Gilbert would say, voice on the verge of a growl. _I’m going crazy._ It frightened Roderich the first time, but Gilbert didn’t hurt him, just made love to him with a desperate vigor Roderich had previously thought was exclusive to romance novels (not that he reads such things). Most nights, however, Gilbert is extremely, almost maddeningly slow with his foreplay. Tonight is one of those nights, and Roderich’s exhausted mind is glad for it.

Gilbert lays Roderich down on the bed, but not before carefully relieving him of his gown. He gently slides his fingers over Roderich’s heels, the arches of his feet, his toes, his ankles. He caresses Roderich’s calves, shaved smooth that morning, then strokes his thighs. His fingertips move along Roderich’s shaft, cupping his balls tenderly. Roderich releases a breath. Gilbert’s fingers lift, alight on the corset. “You aren’t lacing too tight.”

A question posed as a statement. Roderich shakes his head, hair rustling against the pillows. “No, of course not.”

“Good.” Gilbert trails his fingers over the corset, fits his hands around Roderich’s waist—oh, how he loves the way those strong hands frame the invented curves of his body—then slides them upward, fingertips tickling the dips of Roderich’s collarbones. “Sit up, Duchess.” Roderich obeys immediately, and Gilbert moves behind him, begins to massage his shoulders. “You seem stressed.”

Roderich sighs. _Do I sigh too much?_ There’s a horrid thought. “I am.”

Gilbert’s warm hands work the tension out of his shoulders. “What are you worried about?”

He closes his eyes, tempted to just surrender completely to the touch. But then he wouldn’t get to talk to Gilbert, and that’s just as soothing. “Oh, the usual. People hate the way things are, and they all think I can just change things overnight. I’ve heard them say _How can there be trouble with money? The city is rich!_ Yes, the city has a lot of money, but when there are so many places for it to go, it becomes nothing. A pittance here, a pittance there. Keeping things running as usual takes all the money we have. Change costs extra. No one wants to sacrifice.” He pauses, giving a small groan as a knot in his back comes free. Shoulders done, Gilbert moves on to untying the knots in the corset, instead. Roderich continues, “Everyone—the French, I should say—thinks I’m worthless because I can’t give everyone money and jobs.”

“Why would you want money _and_ a job?” Gilbert tugs the laces loose. “Last time I checked, in this world a man either has one or the other.”

Roderich laughs helplessly. Even to his own ears, it sounds like the beginning of a sob. Gilbert gently frees him of the stays, tossing them onto the pile of discarded clothes, and moves around to hold Roderich’s small, white hands. “That’s not all, is it?” he asks, crimson gaze searching his face, at once more and less intense than Basch. “What’s really bothering you?”

Roderich takes a deep breath—very deep, now that his lungs are unhindered. _Is it safe to tell Gilbert about Alfred?_ This thought is immediately followed by another. _Is it safe not to?_ Alfred is undoubtedly a professional, but he’s still only human. What if he makes a mistake and Gilbert kills him? Alfred is here because of Roderich, so that means at the end of the day Roderich would be responsible for Alfred’s death. The thought is difficult to bear. Plus, Roderich is reluctant to lie to Gilbert about anything. He doesn’t believe Gilbert would ever harm him, but . . . but you don’t lie to those you love. _Does he ever lie to me?_

As Roderich and Gilbert, they are lovers. As Grand Duke and gang leader, they are enemies. So far, they’ve managed to exist in a limbo betwixt, at times edging closer to enemies but never acknowledging that impatient elephant in plain terms. Now, however, Roderich knows this is about to end. He can no longer stay frozen, afraid of the possible negatives of change. _I cannot let myself be left behind,_  he thinks as firmly as he can. _I will not._

Roderich takes another deep breath and says, “I sent for an American special agent to come here and go undercover in order to help cleanse Belfaux of crime. His name is Alfred Jones. I don’t know if you’ve seen him yet, he has blond hair and blue—”

“I know him,” says Gilbert, voice hard as concrete. His gaze boils, but doesn’t burn Roderich yet. Waiting, mercifully, for the whole story to come out before he passes judgement.

“I told him not to go after you,” Roderich tells him, a bit of a quaver in his voice. “I told him we don’t have the force it would require to overpower your gang. And that’s true, we don’t. But I told him that because I love you, as well, and I don’t want to see you go to prison. I know why you do the things you do, I understand. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

The heat lessens in Gilbert’s gaze, just a little. “Who’s he after, if not me?”

“Arthur Kirkland.” A man Roderich has never laid eyes upon, but about whom he has heard many stories: a silver-tongued thief who could steal the bones from beneath your skin, or talk you into handing them over if he so fancied. Never violent, though; Roderich respects that much, at least.

Gilbert’s eyes narrow as he looks away. “Arthur is my friend, you know. He doesn’t deserve to go to prison again. All he does is steal expensive shit from people who don’t need it in the first place.”

Roderich hears the unspoken alternative: _from people like you._ “I know that,” he says. “But this is about more than just right and wrong. I know things are always more complicated than they seem on the surface. I know actions are only a part of what defines us. But I need to gain respect. You must hear the things people say about me.”

Gilbert gives a small nod. “Not so much on the English Shore, but everywhere else, yeah.”

“People don’t want to live in fear. I want to make them safe and happy.” He squeezes Gilbert’s hand, rises from the bed. “Unfortunately, people don’t like to live in a place where gang fights could break out, or thieves could break in.” From a secret compartment in his bookshelf, Roderich withdraws a bound bundle of envelopes all adorned with his red _E_ seal. “These are pardons for you and the Nachtadlers. Signed and sealed.”

Gilbert stares at him for a long, silent moment. Roderich has bared himself, his body and his intentions. He stands in his bedchamber, in his own huge home full of people who would die to protect him, and yet he is vulnerable. He chooses to make himself vulnerable to Gilbert, because he trusts him not to take advantage.

“So you want me to let this happen,” says Gilbert slowly. “You want me to let Agent Alfred manipulate my friends and eventually arrest us.”

Roderich nods. “Yes. But you won’t be punished.” He pauses, then blurts, “I’m sorry if you’re angry—”

“Be sorry for not telling me sooner.” He blows out a long breath. “And scratch out my name and put Arthur’s down on that pardon instead. That’ll make me less angry.”

Roderich feels a new anxiety clutch his insides in frigid claws. “Are you and Arthur . . .”

Gilbert’s brow lowers until he realizes what Roderich is asking. He actually laughs. “No. He’s not pretty enough for my tastes.” The humor fades from his expression. “He’s just a friend, a very close friend.” A brief pause. “And he’s a bit like you. He can only take so much. Less than he thinks he can. I don’t want him to break.”

Roderich is heartened by Gilbert’s protectiveness. _Is he this way for me, too?_ Quietly, he says, “I’ll write a pardon for Arthur Kirkland.”

“Thank you.” Gilbert inclines his head. “I have another suggestion for you.”

“Yes?”

“Legalize brothels.” When Roderich’s eyes bulge, Gilbert goes on, “You could write pardons for Antonio and all the people who work for him. Or you could just legalize brothels. Casinos used to be illegal, too, and now they’re the main draw of income to Belfaux. Be as strict as you want with the regulations. Hell, make a limit of two or three brothels on the island if you want to. But a well-kept establishment full of happy workers has no reason to be shut down.”

Roderich’s mind reaches for the thoughts, always eager for new burdens even when its knees are about to buckle. Gilbert gets off the bed and frames Roderich’s face in his hands, clearing his brain of all thoughts except _Kiss me._

“Don’t think about it tonight,” murmurs Gilbert. “Invite Lucille to tea tomorrow and discuss it with her then.” He brushes his lips over Roderich’s, the lightest kiss. “Tonight, I’m gonna make you feel better.”

The next thing Roderich knows, he’s on his back on the bed, Gilbert’s pale skin warming his own beneath the duvet. Gilbert kisses him with a slow sort of passion, not wanting to overwhelm him. He grinds their hips together slowly, as well; Roderich feels lightning prickle through him whenever his bare head brushes against Gilbert’s foreskin. The only hindrance is Basch, down the hall—they have to be quiet, which can be difficult—and the cross of Gilbert’s necklace hanging down into the dip of Roderich’s throat.

Roderich seizes the cross and Gilbert pulls back to look down at him. “Can’t we just take it off for a few minutes?” asks Roderich, reddened lips pouting a little.

They’ve been over this before. Gilbert doesn’t even say anything, just starts to sit up. Roderich tugs on the necklace, pulling him back down into a kiss. “It’s alright,” he mumbles against the Prussian’s lips. “I want you however I can have you, darling.”

Gilbert smiles into the kiss and reaches for the cold cream on Roderich’s nightstand.

Barely five minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

Gilbert freezes, mouth on Roderich’s shoulder. Roderich, jarred from his pleasure, hisses, “Lie still,” and turns down the lamp so the bedroom is given to warm shadows. Then he jerks the duvet up over Gilbert and calls, “Come.”

Gilbert trembles with silent laughter. Roderich gives his head a smack through the duvet. _Now is not the time for innuendo._

The door opens and Basch pokes his head in. He squints through the low light, but the fuzzy slopes of duvet don’t look out of the ordinary. “Are you alright, Mein Herr? I thought I heard you cry out.”

Roderich tries to ignore the inherent awkwardness of speaking to his bodyguard with a cock inside him. “Oh, no, I’m alright. I was just, ah, singing to myself.”

Basch’s gaze softens. “You haven’t sung since . . .”

“Well, things are getting better, I think.”

Basch smiles, a rare gift. “I’m glad.”

Gilbert smiles too, against Roderich’s shoulder. Not rare, but a gift all the same.

Basch lingers in silence a moment longer, as if waiting for something more to be said. When nothing comes, he says, “Well, good night, Mein Herr.”

“Good night, Basch. Sweet dreams.”

“Sleep well.” The door closes.

Roderich pulls the duvet back down and Gilbert lifts his head. “You should tell him about us,” he whispers. “He obviously cares about you. What would he ever do?”

Roderich shakes his head. “I’m afraid to cause any more trouble than I already am. But I do want to tell him.” Words that have been on the tip of his tongue since this affair began finally voice themselves. “One day, when you are no longer a—”

Gilbert presses his lips to Roderich’s hard and regains the steady rhythm of his thrusts. “Don’t,” he says, slipping the words into Roderich’s mouth. “We’re trying to feel good. Saying things like that is going backward, Duchess.”

So Roderich doesn’t say anything else as they groan and gasp between the sheets. He falls asleep, sated to exhaustion and contented by the acknowledgement of choice truths, with the strong warmth of Gilbert beside him. He dreams of waking up to someone who loves him.

“Good morning, Mein Herr,” says Basch. “How did you sleep?”

Roderich curls his fingers into cold, Gilbert-scented sheets and closes his eyes against the grey light of morning.

 

**WEST WHARF**

Gilbert walks into the warehouse hours before dawn. It’s the time when the whole world feels asleep and everything looks bizarre and you think you can almost hear the crazies screaming along with the jangling wails of the entertainment district. There’s no light or noise here, though, nestled on the English Shore. The workers are asleep on threadbare beds. The clouded sky spits no rain. The sea dozes, lapping quietly against the wharf with the rhythm of slumbering breaths.

Gilbert doesn’t bother flicking on the overhead fluorescents. They’re rarely used; they tend to make Gilbert’s eyes sore, or give him a migraine, or both. He lights a kerosene lantern instead, sets it on the card table. The smell reminds him a bit of the foundry, where many of the poor Shore Brits pound out their backs and burn off their faces. Gilbert could never work there; even with a mask, the molten metal would blind him sooner or later.

Then again, perhaps he should be considering a career change. He can’t get Roderich’s unfinished sentence out of his head. _When you are no longer a_ —It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what would have come next. Gangster, criminal. How can Roderich claim to understand why he does things, and yet think it would be so simple to just stop being a gang leader? He can’t abandon the Nachtadlers. They’re his crew, his family. They support him as much as he supports them. If he had to choose between them and a life with Roderich . . .

“You’re out late.”

Gilbert turns around, shoulders squared. His body is instinctively tensed, but he himself isn’t overly surprised. “And you’re in late.”

Natalya Arlovskaya steps out of the shadows. “Did you enjoy your night?”

“No.” He regards her warily. “My work is never done.”

“Is that what you call it?”

 _Don’t freak out. She doesn’t know. She’s just trying to make you panic._ He keeps his face as impassive as he can. “I can see where Bonnefoy gets his dramatics from. Mamochka.”

Her eyes narrow to icy slivers. “I will never understand why he likes you.”

 _If she gets riled that easily, she doesn’t know._ It eases him enough that he smirks. “I guess it’s true that the French have good taste. I think now would be a good time to tell me what you want. I’m tired of you and of being awake.”

Natalya walks by him, and he hopes she’ll just leave without saying another word, but alas she pauses in the doorway to say, “I want you to get me a blowlamp.”

He turns to stare at her. “What the hell for?”

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon. Francis’s pet will run its mouth, as usual.”

Gilbert glares at her. “You’re one to talk. You took in a stray, too.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, this time without malice. Instead, a tiny smile quirks her lips and she says, “Give Rapunzel my regards.”

She leaves Gilbert to stare into the dark, mouth open but no words forthcoming. _How did she find out? When?_ It’s been a long time since he last felt this bottomless, paranoid fear. His earlier words are proven correct: his work is never done. The list of people he needs to protect continues to grow. It’s taller than he is now; he knows there’s no hope of keeping them all safe by himself. But who can he trust to help him?

He thinks back to the evenings of the previous weeks, listening to Arthur and that American argue playfully the way Arthur once did with Francis. Gilbert isn’t blind. He saw the way Arthur used to look at the Frenchman, and he sees the way he looks at the American now. And—the imperative detail—he sees the way the American looks back. Anger burns Gilbert’s chest when he thinks of Alfred tricking Arthur into thinking he cares about him—but then he remembers Arthur’s claims that they’re old friends, and Arthur’s barely hidden annoyance at Alfred’s presence that first day. Arthur knows, then, has known all along. _Traitor._ The thought is soft and foul; Gilbert tosses it out like a bit of rotten meat. If Arthur is a traitor because he knows about Alfred, so is Gilbert. Alfred is lying to the others, but Gilbert is certain he isn’t lying to Arthur. That, then, is one less person.

And maybe, just maybe, if Alfred shifts his attention to a more malevolent enemy . . .

 _You better not fuck this up, Jones._ Gilbert rubs a hand down his weary face.  _I hope you know what you’re doing._


	10. Chapter 10

**_1 9 2 2_ **

 

You are under arrest.

Your hands are cuffed behind your back. You are put into the musty backseat of a constable’s car. You are driven through the entertainment district, one final tour of the bright life you will no longer get to enjoy. You are taken west, always west, because the English Shore is where the ugly things are kept. Your car stops outside a guarded iron gate. You’re ushered roughly out of the car, which leaves you behind without a word of farewell. One guard nudges you with his gun, tells you to look alive, as if you are not quivering with terrified energy only the living could possess. The guard escorts you down a gravel path. The courtyard is empty; the stone walls are too high and smooth to climb. The building is old, one of the oldest Belfaux has to offer, but not as old as the statue in front of it. The gravel path encircles it—you can go left or right, but you’re still on the road to hell’s doorstep either way. The statue is marble, a pale ghost in the gloom and rain. A naked man kneels in chains while another lies dead, his body parts scattered around the statue’s stone base. A third man, this one in hooded robes that obscure his face, assembles a cage around the chained man with the bones of his fallen comrade. The man on his knees gazes at you sorrowfully with his empty white eyes; the rain dripping down his milky face mimics the tears this horrific scene rendered bloodless by a sculptor would certainly draw forth. Beneath, a fading inscription in the stone: _Le Péché n’a pas d’Amis._

This is L’iviore Prison.

You go inside. There are no windows or electric lights, only circles of unreliable visibility around flickering lanterns. The guard pushes you toward a sickly slate blue door. He leaves. You have nowhere to run. Your legs shake as you go to the door. You squint through the weak, unsteady light to read the small plaque on the door. RECEPTION. You consider knocking, but you aren’t a guest. You live here now. You walk right in, steeling yourself against whatever might wait inside. It doesn’t prepare you.

A lantern hanging above lights a bare examination table. A man stands behind the table, his blond hair paled by the flame, a glowing jagged halo. His face is shadowed until he looks at you, and you know in that moment that if the hooded figure in the statue outside had a face, it would be the face of this man. His expression is harder than marble; his eyes are a pale, lightless blue. This is the head correctional officer of L’ivoire Prison.

This is Mathias Densen.

 

“Arthur Kirkland, mm? I’m Officer Densen. Welcome to hell.”

Arthur regarded the turnkey with distaste, because the only alternative was to cower in fear, and he would not do that. _What would Francis do?_ Thinking of the Frenchman, the warmth of him beside Arthur at night, rose-scented golden hair creeping onto Arthur’s pillow—dangerous tears pricked the backs of his eyes. _Don’t think about him._ Instead, he sought strength—Gilbert. _What would Gilbert do?_ He wouldn’t show weakness. He would keep his chin up, his shoulders square, and above all, he would maintain his dignity.

Densen gave a small jerk of the chin toward Arthur. “Clothes off.”

Arthur stared at him, frozen. If it was Gilbert, he’d just roll his eyes and lazily strip, all of him muscled and masculine, a black eagle on his back with inky wings spread across his shoulder blades. A worthy opponent of this formidable turnkey. There was a baton on one side of his belt and a pistol on the other. Arthur despised guns, but he didn’t fear that one. A turnkey wouldn’t waste a bullet on him in here. Not at close range. Not when Densen stood a head taller than him.

When he made no move to obey the order, Densen repeated it, harsher. “Strip. Now.”

Arthur physically felt his bravado begin to slip away; he clawed it back. Glowering at the turnkey, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, folding it and setting it on the table. His fingers hesitated at the final button of his shirt, but he pressed his lips together and pulled his shirt off quickly, glaring at Densen while his heart knocked against his sternum as if testing it for weakness.

Densen’s eyebrows actually lifted a little. “What is that?”

Arthur didn’t look away, even as the flesh of his chest began to burn, a blush rising swiftly. “Bandages.”

“Are you wounded?”

 _As if you care._ “No.”

“Then take them off.”

 _What would Gilbert do?_ He wouldn’t be stuck in a woman’s body. He defied such humiliating trivialities.

Arthur didn’t need to be told—he knew his choices were doing it himself or having Densen do it for him. So he took a quiet breath, gaze on the floor, and unwrapped the tight bandages from round his chest. The breasts were not large enough to really hang, but they had enough weight to them that he felt the burden physically as well as emotionally. _You are other,_ they said. _You are unknown._

It was true for the turnkey, who was staring at him as if there was something inhuman beneath the bandage rather than a pair of irritatingly perky tits. “What the hell are you?”

Arthur glared. “A thief. A con. A gentleman. Take your pick.”

“Gentleman?” Densen stepped around the table, so they had only two feet of space between them. His brow was low on icy eyes. “Take your pants off.”

Arthur’s neck and face burned as he removed his Oxfords, socks, and trousers. Only briefs remained, and as far as Arthur was concerned, his lack of any bulge should have told the damned turnkey all he needed to know. But Densen’s face didn’t change from expectant annoyance with a dash of confusion. So Arthur slipped off his underwear as well and at last stood naked, feeling more vulnerable than ever before in his life; he would have shivered, if not for the hot embarrassment reddening his skin.

Densen looked him up and down twice, eyes narrowed. “You,” he said finally, “are a woman.”

“No,” replied Arthur, as coolly as he could manage, “I am a man.”

Densen actually snorted. “You sure look like a woman to me, prig.”

“Well, you’re a turnkey,” said Arthur. “I don’t expect you to be intelligent enough to grasp an abstract concept.”

Now Densen’s eyes really went cold. His tone held no more politeness. “Get on the table.”

Arthur had no wish to close the distance between them, but he reasoned he would keep their touching to a minimum if he obeyed orders. _Dignity, dignity._ He kept his head lifted as he sat on the table, but couldn’t prevent a wince at the cold metal of the tabletop.

Densen pulled on a translucent white glove. “Open your mouth.”

Arthur wondered if Francis could say something flirtatious here, try to get the upper hand. _Oh, God. Don’t think about him._ He parted his lips and tried his damnedest to ignore the small miseries piling up inside him.

Two fingers pried his jaw open wider; Arthur fought the temptation to bite down and then to gag as Densen poked about in his mouth. “Hm, you’re clean,” remarked the turnkey. “I expected someone perverted as you to be full of disease.”

Arthur had seen the sores the street molls tried to hide beneath their paint, hideous painful things that spread to wherever they kissed—which was, inevitably, one of two places. Arthur tugged his head back, indignant. “I’m not a whore,” he snapped.

“No, I don’t suppose anyone would take you, if you were.” Densen’s tone was light now, almost fanciful. “You’re awfully ugly, for a woman. But then again, you don’t have what it takes to be a man. So you’re really just a gelding, aren’t you? No balls, no spine. No sense to know what you are and accept it.”

 _People are afraid,_ Francis had told him, _of things they don’t understand. Some people will be afraid of you. You make them question how they belong in the world. That makes them afraid. And that makes them angry._

Arthur’s rage made his hands quiver like Antonio’s, but the rest of him was completely still as he replied, “Actually, I do know what I am, and I do accept it. It’s halfwits like you who can’t bring yourself to consider things might be different from your lifeless drudgery of existence. I could go on about your mind-boggling ineptitude, but I shan’t interrupt my examination any longer. This is likely the closest you’ve come to having sex, so I’ll let you get on with it.” He gave his nastiest smile; if you looked up _bastard_ in the dictionary, this smile leapt out and punched you. “You can even pretend we’re in love, if you like. Not that you need the practise.” Anger and regret and fear and wretched nerves fed cutting words to his mouth. “You seem like the sort to either die alone or with a wife who hates you. Which will it be, do you think?”

Densen regarded Arthur’s toxic primness with an animal intensity so unnerving Arthur wanted to look away but simply couldn’t—and then, by way of answer, Densen grabbed Arthur by the back of the head and slammed the side of his face down on the table once, then again. Arthur struggled to lift his head through pain and disorientation; Densen banged his head down a third time, and Arthur learned his lesson. Blood now burned the outside of Arthur’s cheek, but that was not what filled him with terror.

The sound of Densen’s belt being unbuckled did that.

“No,” mumbled Arthur, a pitiful whimper through a mouth that felt thick. “No. No.”

He didn’t beg. It didn’t even occur to him. He just said no, over and over again, until it was barely audible, until it sounded like nonsense, until Densen was up to the hilt and it was not no but yes whether you like it or not and he was breaking him and hurting him and splitting him in two and pulling his hair and breathing fire on his neck and killing him and spurting hot wet down his leg and stepping back to say, “Get up.”

Arthur couldn’t move. He felt his body only as pain and as agony, weaker and stronger and throbbing in disharmony. His legs were still off the table, splayed outward, barely holding him up. All of him trembled now.

“Get _up_ ,” snapped Densen, kicking one of his shins. “Get dressed.”

Arthur had not fainted, but that’s what Densen thought he’d done. The turnkey dressed him roughly in a grey shirt and trousers, then dragged him like a ragdoll out of the room. Arthur’s vision lapsed; when he could see again, he was on the damp concrete of a solitary cell. Densen slammed shut the door, locked it, and walked away with the stomp-jangle of boots and keys. Somewhere, cons shouted to Arthur, but he couldn’t understand them, could barely hear them. Even if he could, he wouldn’t have cared. The floor smelt of rot, but he didn’t care. Blood and semen seeped into his grey prison trousers, but he didn’t care. He was all alone here. But he didn’t care.

He was breathing, his heart was beating, and the overwhelming pain was proof that he was still alive, but as far as Arthur Kirkland was concerned, he was dead.

 

We’ll leave our thief to rest.

 

Francis Bonnefoy cared quite a bit for his comrades. Antonio, Gilbert, the Vargas brothers—they all violated his policy of caring only for himself. Even more so, he cared for Arthur Kirkland, when he wasn’t being a prat. But the problem with caring for others when you worked for someone who cared for no one was that feelings just didn’t matter. Money was what mattered, above all else but the occasional ravenous revenge.

“Did you hear what happened?” This from Abel, who met Francis by chance on his way to steal the ring. “Arthur was arrested. He was found in Lucille Delacroix’s mansion. We just got word from one of the servants.”

Francis couldn’t even be shocked. It didn’t feel like anything at first, no pain or fear. Then he considered going to sleep at night without Arthur in the flat, either in bed beside him or curled up on the sofa, a comfort either way. Francis felt like a sizable chunk of his soul had been ripped from inside him.

Damn him, damn the Englishman and his need to prove himself to the world. Impatient! Greedy! Francis wanted things, too, he had dreams—but did he rush out? No. It had taken him months of consideration to even perform for the people of the market. He dreamed of fame, of everyone knowing his name and recognizing his face—but he couldn’t risk it, not while he was a con. What if things overlapped? What if it was used against him? He couldn’t afford to stick his neck out. It was bad enough to have a partner, to have friends. He couldn’t afford to have things like love and dreams.

So, when he found out that Lucille had not cancelled her masquerade ball despite being robbed, he went to work. The job had to be done. Natalya would already be furious at Arthur; she didn’t need to be pissed at Francis, as well. He was upset about the former. The latter would be salt in a very deep wound.

“What the hell is this?” asked Gilbert, when Francis held out a mask to him the next night, the night of the ball.

“Your mask,” replied Francis, behind his own. It was only an eye-cover, with a red rose at the left temple. Red was in fashion, so it was all scarlet, with sparkling gold leaves beneath the rose and beads like blood drops bordering the eye holes.

Gilbert arched an eyebrow. The mask in his hands was elegantly fiendish, an eye-cover bristling with black feathers and a great plume of black peacock feathers at the top. “How many birds died for this monster?”

“I thought you’d appreciate it. The peacock feathers will fall back over your head. They’ll hide your hair.”

“I don’t actually have to wear it, do I?”

“It is a masquerade ball.” Francis arched an exasperated eyebrow barely visible over the edge of his eye-cover. “You must wear a mask.”

Gilbert sighed and put the mask on. It felt as ridiculous as he expected, but it transformed him into a rare nighttime creature, red eyes gleaming in the shadows. “I thought you always used to say you’d never wear a mask on a heist.” He slipped into an incredibly guttural French accent: “Covering up this gorgeous face is le true crime!”

They both erupted in laughter at that, but it quickly faded into silence, because this was where Arthur would continue the riff with something twice as funny and keep getting sillier until Antonio fell out of his chair in convulsions of hilarity.

“We’ll get him out,” said Gilbert, as if the decision was already made, as if it was one he could make. “I’ll pay as much of the bail as I can.”

Francis nodded wearily. “But it won’t matter, if Natalya won’t pay the rest.”

“She might. She should. Arthur is a good investment.”

Arthur was an excellent investment, and Natalya didn’t need Francis to tell her that. He was tempted to plead with her when he brought her the ring, but he knew that would reveal too much. So he would simply ask her to grant Arthur freedom. “I suspect she’ll say yes,” said Francis as they got into the back of a cab. “It will be an investment for a larger return.”

“And leverage,” added Gilbert darkly. When Francis refused to say anything to that, Gilbert shifted his gaze out the window. “I hope Arthur can hold his own until then.”

Francis watched rain streak down his own window. “I hope,” he murmured. _I hope he can keep his mouth shut._

 

Lucille Delacroix’s mansion was nothing special. By all accounts, it was gorgeous in an old-fashioned way that stirred a nostalgic yearning in the classical soul of Francis Bonnefoy. But it was surrounded by similarly gorgeous mansions and lacked any uniqueness that might make it stand out. Although, it was a tad special tonight; you would be hard-pressed to find another place on the island where men and ladies wore elaborate masks and sipped melted chocolate. The night air was thick with perfume and smoke just outside the front door. While Francis wove a rich tale about having lost their invitation and being some beloved cousin named Pierre, Gilbert listened to snatches of conversation floating out from the black-and-white tiled foyer. They all knew of the break-in the night before. They all saw the extra guards Lucille had hired. They were waiting for things to truly become exciting.

Gilbert sincerely hoped they wouldn’t become exciting, but he was here with a gun in his suit coat just in case.

Finally, the guards relented, and Francis and Gilbert were allowed in. Francis was accustomed to this sort of grandeur, but Gilbert rarely saw it. He felt out of place here, shoulders squeezed into a suit, a feral animal among a flock of lap dogs. These were house cats fat on milk; he was a hunter, not a silky clawless travesty.

“A guard upstairs,” murmured Francis, observing artwork on the wall.

Gilbert put his hands into his pockets and surreptitiously glanced toward the curved staircase. A thick-necked guard was posted up there, leaning boredly on the balcony overlooking the foyer. “Are you asking me for a diversion?”

“Oui.” Francis accepted a flute of champagne from a black-shirted server and handed it to Gilbert without sipping it. “Don’t neck that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay classy.” Gilbert tipped up his pinkie while he delicately sipped, but neither of them were very amused by it because it just reminded them of Arthur. “Do I get a cut if I give you shade?”

“Very funny.”

Gilbert scanned the throng of aristocrats. There were the Arnaud triplets, each in butterfly masks; they were the only ones unafraid to gossip on this night, because even if they spoke foul of someone straight to their face, they were rich enough to be untouchable. There was Lucille Delacroix herself, tipping up her glass to someone; her eye-cover was red with black swirls of lace, tiny dangling onyx tassels, and—inexplicably—pointed cat ears on top. Gilbert’s gaze finally halted on a piece of still quiet among the bustling noise. A small man stood apart from everyone else, and was one of the few attendees to have a full-faced mask. He stood at once with assurance and doubt; he was afraid of something, but Gilbert couldn’t tell what it was. Curiosity piqued, he approached the man. “Excusez-moi.”

The man turned to face him, allowing full view of the mask. It was porcelain white with gilt flourishes and, despite the slight smile of its delicate golden lips, it wept indigo tears. Those tears, on closer inspection, were actually music notes. Violet eyes peered out, beautiful in a sad way that Gilbert hadn’t seen since he met the gaze of his dying mother decades previous.

“You look lonely,” said Gilbert, in rather stiff French.

Roderich gazed up at him, trying not to panic from this sudden attention. He was supposed to be in bed right now. Basch thought he was sleeping off a migraine; he’d promised not to disturb him until morning. _It’s a white lie,_ said Lucille. _He’ll never know the difference. And he isn’t your father, or your mother for that matter. You need to live a little!_ Living a little was decidedly more nerve-wracking than he’d expected. He’d never experienced a more concentrated group of people who disliked him; aside from this stranger before him, everyone here was French.

“Do you speak German?” asked Roderich, rather than answer the observation.

Gilbert smiled, relieved. “Ja. Are you from the homeland?”

“No.” A nervous pause. “Are you?”

“My father was. I visited, a long time ago. Belfaux is home now.” Francis and Arthur, Antonio and the angels, his Nachtadlers were home. And Ludwig. He had to be included, whether he liked it or not. “Are you alright? You seem sort of . . . worried.”

Roderich bit his lip behind the mask. Gilbert was the first person he had spoken to tonight; he couldn’t risk being discovered by these people. Instead of admitting that, he said, “Thieves are lurking. They say Lucille is brave for holding the ball tonight. She claims no thief would be bold enough to come right after another was caught.”

 _Reverse psychology doesn’t work when you turn a mirror on another mirror._ “We’ll hope not,” said Gilbert. Then he remembered the purpose of this conversation and offered a hand. “Would you like to dance?”

Roderich stared at him in bewilderment, as if he couldn’t hear the musicians playing stately bal-musette in the ballroom. “This area isn’t for dancing,” he said. “We might scuff the tiles. And besides, I can’t dance.”

“Neither can I,” said Gilbert happily, and proceeded to tug the pretty-eyed stranger into the middle of the foyer. People moved out of the way quickly, tittering to each other about who these two could possibly be. Gilbert led Roderich not in the slow waltz the Austrian was expecting, but a quick-stepping, jovial Belfaux java. It was clumsy and bouncy and glorious, with Gilbert intentionally leaving marks on the white tiles and both of them laughing at each other. Everyone stared with the morbid curiosity one might have for a car crash; even the guard at the balcony was enraptured enough for Francis to slip past in his peripheral vision.

 _The ring will be in the same place,_ thought Francis. _She’ll think a thief wouldn’t think to look in the same place twice._ The lockbox didn’t take too much convincing, after Arthur had loosened the pins. Francis picked through photographs of children, a yellowed letter written in French cursive so excessively loopy Francis could barely read it—there. The ring. In the shadow under the bed, the large jewel looked dark red—but when he took it into the light of the hall, it turned a deep green. _Alexandrite,_ he thought appreciatively. _Real magic._

Gilbert was still dancing. Francis flowed down the stairs as if he owned the place and said theatrically, “Come now, mon ami, it’s time we met the night.”

The guard was saying something in bewildered French, and the aristocrats all gazed around, puzzled by these proceedings. Lucille moved through the people, headed for Francis. Gilbert pressed a kiss to the smooth cheek of Roderich’s mask, then twirled him away. Lucille caught Roderich; Francis and Gilbert ran into the black and the rain.

Not as graceful as Francis’s jobs usually went, but there was an undeniable thrill to messiness when it still ended in success. Gilbert flashed a grin at Francis, who returned it, but distractedly. His mind was already in Natalya’s hotel room.

He didn’t beg, by the way, in the end. But he came preciously close, and for a few weeks his abdomen held the bruises to prove it.

 

A brief interlude.

As is typically the case, Mathias Densen was not always the frigid slave to anger he has become. Once, he was a bright-eyed playful son of a soldier, eager to use his strength and discipline to keep in check the prisoners of Belfaux’s only prison. He quickly became friends with both the prison staff and the prisoners. The warden, stoic Berwald Oxenstierna, often invited him to at-home dinners lovingly cooked by his life partner, Tino. The prisoners all agreed on his being the best correctional officer; he gained their favor by treating them like people, joking with them and never exerting more force than needed. But Mathias’s favorite at the prison was most definitely the doctor. Dr. Lukas Bondevik.

Mathias was almost glad when someone got shanked, because he got to drag them to the hospital ward and stand protectively close while Lukas stitched. Such fine, deft hands. Such dark, intelligent eyes. Such sweet lips, which stayed annoyingly sealed when Mathias tried to talk to him. For months, Mathias sought Lukas out whenever he could. He brought him sweets and flowers and endless, endless compliments. _Your hair looks nice today. You look well-rested, did you have a nice dream last night? Your shoes are very shiny, do you get them shined? That’s an awfully nice necktie. Your eyes are beautiful. You—_

Lukas kissed him, hard, right on the big mouth. Mathias’s eyes opened wide, then drooped shut. After a few moments of the best kiss of their lives (so far), Lukas pulled back and asked in fond exasperation, “Do you ever shut up?”

Mathias grinned. “When my mouth finds something better to do than talk. Do you have any ideas?”

As it turned out, Lukas had more ideas than Mathias thought possible, for someone so reserved. They had barely begun the gleeful journey through all those deliciously exhausting ideas when Mathias found himself taken ill for the first time he could remember.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled after staggering around the prison all morning. “I never get sick.”

“Mmhm.” Lukas took the thermometer from under his tongue and regarded it. “You have a low fever, like I suspected. You’re paler than normal. Do you feel nauseous?”

Mathias could have thrown up right then and there, but he shrugged. “A little, I guess.”

Lukas arched a dubious eyebrow. “You have a flu. Go home.”

“But—”

Lukas touched his cheek, fingers soothingly cool on Mathias’s hot skin. “Take a day off,” he said. “At least one day.” He gave a light, loving smile. “Doctor’s orders.”

Mathias spent the rest of the day at home, slurping chicken soup. He slept in the next day, and he was feeling better so he decided he’d stop by the prison with some sweets for Lukas. He was just walking out the front door when the phone rang. “Hallo?”

“M-Mathias.” It was Tino the nurse, in tears. “I’m s-so sorry—there was a riot, a-and—oh, I’m so, so sorry . . .” He took an unsteady breath. “Lukas was killed. He was stabbed. I’m so sorry. There was n-nothing we could do, or we—”

Mathias hung up.

Grief is perhaps the most inadequate word in the English language. Mathias was never the same again. But since then, there has never been another riot in L’iviore Prison.

And Officer Densen has not missed a day of work.

 

“Prig.” Another CO, one who tended to keep his abuse to verbal only, dragged his baton noisily along the bars of Arthur Kirkland’s cell. “Wake up. It’s your lucky day.”

The cell had a tiny cot, but Arthur wasn’t lying on it. He was curled up on the floor in the corner, knees to his chest, arms tight round his legs, taking up the least amount of space possible. He wasn’t sleeping; he jerked the moment baton touched bars. He lifted his head, and when he saw Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis— _Francis_ —standing outside his cell, he thought he was hallucinating.

“You’re getting bailed,” said the turnkey. “But if you’re too lazy to get up, you can stay here another day.”

Arthur stood quickly, winced, steadied himself against the wall, and gathered the few scraps of dignity he had left. He would not show the weakness of relief that his friends had rescued him. He walked out of the cell with the stiff, small steps of someone trying their damnedest not to limp. Gilbert and Antonio had been smiling, but neither were now. Francis’s face was unreadable beyond a vague sense of sorrow. They let Arthur lead the way to get his clothing back, then followed him out to Gilbert’s car in the parking lot. Arthur had glared when the other prisoners hurled insults at him, but as they neared the car, his angry facade began to crumble. His lip trembled with the pain and the effort of hiding it; Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis exchanged uncomfortable glances, barely able to watch Arthur’s slow progress.

Ignoring them, Arthur pulled on one of the car door handles. It was locked. Just that, one tiny failure on top of the precipitous mountain of shame and fear inside him—that was the last straw. He broke.

Immediately, Gilbert’s arms were around him, and Francis’s, and Antonio’s. They all pressed close, as gently as they could, lending support on all sides. Arthur buried his face in Francis’s shoulder and shook against him, soaking his shirt with tears. “It was terrible,” he whimpered, and he was suddenly just a little kid, a lost boy, an innocent. Gilbert looked grimly at Francis, who said nothing, just stroked Arthur’s messy hair.

Arthur didn’t speak until they’d left the prison behind. “Thank you,” he said, voice a bit nasal after all his crying. “For getting me out.”

Gilbert glanced back at him from the driver’s seat. “Don’t thank us. Well, thank me a bit. The Russians paid most of your bail.”

Francis nodded in the passenger seat. “You’re indebted now.”

Beside Arthur in the backseat, Antonio gave a goofy smile and said, “Join the club, amigo. It’s not very inclusive.”

Arthur sniffled. “Exclusive.”

“That, too.”

Arthur didn’t laugh, but he stopped being so close to crying. Antonio had him almost smiling by the time they reached the warehouse. “I’d rather just go home,” said Arthur quietly, but Gilbert said, “Just come in for a second, okay?”

The second that door opened, every single Nachtadler roared and cheered and clapped. Cries of _Welcome back, Kirkland!_ went up. The sudden noise had him shying back; the gangsters fell silent, their smiles fading in concern. Arthur put on a smile for their benefit, but it felt like a ghost on his face. The Nachtadlers cheered again, and Arthur turned to Gilbert. “Take me home,” he said through his teeth. “ _Please._ ”

Abel, ever observant, saw Arthur’s discomfort and told the gang they could finish their celebrations and welcomings when Arthur had gotten some much-needed rest.

 _The much-needed was an understatement,_ thought Gilbert as he carried a sleeping Arthur into the flat with Francis trailing behind. “Put him in on the bed,” advised the Frenchman. Gilbert obeyed, setting him down gently on the mattress. He lingered a moment, looking at Francis while Francis looked back at him.

They both knew what had happened.

“Kiss him when he wakes up,” said Gilbert finally.

Francis stared. “You think that will help?”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. “I’ll beat the coy off your face, Bonnefoy.”

Francis looked at the wall, pensive.

“Make him feel better. You know it has to be you who does it,” said Gilbert from the doorway. “It’s the least you could do.”

Francis said nothing. The door closed. The muffled jazz from the basement sounded just as miserable as Francis felt.

 

Arthur didn’t get a kiss when he woke. Instead, he got a long, long bath that soaked some of the pain out of his body. He didn’t get dressed when he came out, didn’t even bind his chest. Francis found him sprawled on the couch wearing nothing but Francis’s robe, a cigarette in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He was ostensibly relaxing, but there was a fragile intensity to his eyes that shouted to Francis how on-edge he was.

Francis lifted Arthur’s feet, sat down, and set them on his lap. “How are you feeling, mon ami?”

Arthur looked at him sharply, then took a long sip of tea. He shrugged, gaze averted.

Francis tickled Arthur’s toes.

The Englishman jerked, nearly spilt his tea. “God. Don’t. I’ll kick you.”

“On purpose or by accident?”

Arthur set his tea down on the crowded coffee table. “I’m not in the mood to come up with something clever, Francis.” He went to take a drag, then reached to grind his cigarette into the clay ashtray. “I’m just.” He closed his eyes, fingers pushing into his temples, and sighed in something close to defeat. “I’m angry.” Then, without pause or warning, he dropped his hands and fixed that intense, over-wound gaze on Francis. “What is the point of sex? Why does any woman agree to it? What, exactly, is the appeal?”

Well, that removed any doubts Francis had about what had occurred in that cursed jail. Francis didn’t allow himself to consider it in detail, because it filled him with a fury that he had previously thought beyond him. He tucked some hair behind his ear and replied, “Making love is wonderful for all parties involved, if it is done right.”

Arthur scowled. He’d heard the moans and squeals of the women and occasional men Francis brought home, and they _sounded_ like they enjoyed it, but . . . “Wonderful,” he echoed, skeptical. “How is it wonderful? What’s wonderful about it?”

Francis chuckled. “It’s not really something that can be explained. But it is about connection, a bond—making each other feel good, feel loved. That’s wonderful, don’t you think?”

Arthur’s mind was fiery, sharp with barbed wire. Nothing was wonderful anymore. The dark had got in and everything was ruined. The stain would never come out.

Francis saw this and leaned closer, one hand cupping Arthur’s cheek. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “I could show you, instead?”

Arthur subconsciously moved into the touch, but his face was closed off. “And what does that mean? I’ll be as good as those strumpets you bring here?”

“Of course not.” Francis’s brow furrowed. “You’re my partner. They are only a night of my life. You’re . . .”

Arthur arched an eyebrow, belligerence cloaking hope.

Francis struggled to find the end of his sentence. “You’re . . . well, you’re—you’re everything else.” He smiled warmly, leaving that thread behind. “Sex is different for everyone. For us, it will be what we always have: me teaching you something.” He winked. “Because you know nothing.”

Even this light teasing made Arthur’s eyes burn with anger, but the emerald flames flickered out when Francis’s thumb gently traced Arthur’s lips. “I want to kiss you, mon beau lapin.”

Arthur leaned close enough that their lips very nearly brushed, and it was only his words that kept him from blushing: “Are you sure you want this? I’m damaged goods, you know.”

Francis’s smile wilted ruefully. “Remember what I told you about the past?”

Arthur rested his forehead against Francis’s, closing his eyes and surrendering to the wails of his body that cried _Touch him, let him touch you, let him take you until there’s nothing left to suffer._ “Keep it behind. Out of sight—”

“Out of mind.” But this was rather muffled, because they were kissing. Those French lips felt just as good as Arthur thought they would, but the feeling was a startled hare; it slipped from his grasp and bounded ahead, ahead, ahead. He would catch it, he had to—he would not let the hideous feelings inside him overwhelm the beauty of this. He listened to his body, started to pull Francis down on top of him . . .

_Densen’s dog teeth on his shoulder._

Arthur pushed Francis back and swiped tears from his eyes. “Damn it, _damn_ it. I can’t—”

“You don’t have to be on your back.” Francis smoothed Arthur’s hair, smiling encouragingly. “It’s alright. There are plenty other ways to feel pleasure. In fact . . .” He stood, tugged Arthur to his feet and they kissed their way into the bedroom. Francis pulled off his shirt, but hesitated when he went to untie the robe Arthur was wearing.

Wordlessly, Arthur threw the robe on the floor. He had no shame around Francis, not anymore. Plus, he needed that feeling before it vanished forever. “Go on. Show me.”

Arthur didn’t know what he was expecting, but he was surprised to see Francis lie down on his back. “Come here,” said the Frenchman, and Arthur crawled onto the bed beside him. “No, up here.” Francis maneuvered Arthur so the Englishman was straddling his chest.

Arthur stared down at him, pelvis aching dully. “What are you going to do?”

Francis just smiled, gently urging Arthur to move forward. “I’m going to help you.”

Deft fingers slipped between Arthur’s legs; he nearly choked on a gasp. Francis kissed his left thigh, his right thigh, and finally what lay between. It was playful and casual, Francis’s movements practised and his tongue so soft and wet and warm. Arthur had seized the feeling without even realizing it, flames of arousal licking inside him, just warmth and an instinctive safety bleeding outward from the intimate core he had bared to his partner. He ground against Francis’s face, fingers grasping handfuls of blanket, and when the flames grew into a bonfire, he cried out and, after a great shudder struck him like the most wonderful bolt of lightning, Arthur went limp, breathing hard.

“Mmm.” Francis tapped Arthur’s thigh insistently.

Arthur shifted off of him, collapsed at his side.  _Bloody hell._

Francis smiled at him, face rather red. “Ask before smothering your bedmate, mon ami.”

“Sorry.” Still panting, Arthur glanced toward the zipper of Francis’s trousers. “What about . . . ?”

Francis shook his head. “It’s not me who needed to feel better.”

Translation: _We aren’t together. I’ll give you pleasure, but I won’t take it from you. I won’t make this real. You know I love you, but you’re my partner, my friend—that’s how I care for you. That’s all._

Arthur stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, he replied, “Thank you.”

Translation: _Thank you._

 

Arthur’s torment didn’t end there. It wasn’t enough that he’d been caught, imprisoned, assaulted. It wasn’t enough that Natalya now owned his soul until he paid her back for his bail, plus an astronomical amount of interest. It wasn’t enough that Francis didn’t want them to be in love.

Six weeks after his stay at L’ivoire Prison, Arthur found himself locked in a vicious cycle of nausea. The first week, he thought it only a bug. But when it lingered a second, and a third, and the damned monthly courses did not come, he knew. His body had committed the ultimate betrayal.

He hid it from Francis. He feigned illness, ran the bath to hide the sound of retching, wore looser shirts to hide the fact that he could no longer bind his already swollen, tender breasts. (Further betrayal. How utterly he despised his body in those miserable months.)

He knew he couldn’t keep it. There was no need to even consider it. He had to work, he couldn’t raise a child. He was a thief—thieves didn’t have families, loved ones. A baby was an unbelievable weakness. He couldn’t afford it, none of them could. He had to get rid of it.

So he went to St. Raphaela’s.

He cried when he told the angels what had happened to him (he was ludicrously emotional even in the first weeks). Laura was the one who offered to help. “I know how to feather,” she said. “It’s where—”

“Don’t describe it,” said Arthur, voice breaking. “Just do it. Please.”

The feather was large, from an ostrich. It was used in much the same way as a coat hanger—in this unfortunate context—but was much less dangerous. Metal could maim; the tip of the feather was sharp, but not nearly as wicked.

Arthur didn’t lay eyes on it. He kept his eyes on the Vargas brothers; they each held one of his hands while Laura tied Arthur’s ankles to the bed. Arthur squeezed Lovino’s hand, and the Italian squeezed back, holding his gaze just as surely as he held his hand. Feliciano nattered on about how it would be over soon and Laura was very excellent at this and he needn’t be afraid and he thought perhaps the sun might come out tomorrow, _wouldn’t that be nice?_

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. The last thing he remembered before the all-encompassing, heart-stopping, earth-shattering terror was the light tickle of the feather between his thighs.


	11. Chapter 11

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**ROOK STREET**

On Alfred’s first official day as a professional pickpocket, he wakes up at seven in the morning. It takes his mind a moment to catch up with the reality of his situation: Belfaux, the English Shore, the thieves’ flat. He’s lying on the sofa. Arthur is curled up like a kitten on the loveseat. Alfred is taken aback by how innocent and _young_ sleep makes the Englishman look. Alfred has seen at least a hundred cons in his years as a police officer and agent, so he knows they come in all shapes and sizes. There are the hardened criminals, men and women with blackened souls who have chosen the wrong path again and again until they’ve worn ruts so deep they can’t climb out. But then there are the ones who are put into bad situations, who have no better choice, who do it out of necessity only. Alfred can’t tell which of those categories Arthur belongs in. He claimed he wouldn’t take money from those who couldn’t spare it, but he has yet to show any kind of remorse for doing something that is illegal and immoral no matter who you do it to.

 _And he stopped a bank robbery,_ he thinks, watching Arthur shift slightly in his sleep. _He risked his life to stop a crime. What normal criminal does that?_

_I need to make a plan. There’s no point bringing in all these guys if I don’t stop their boss. If the Russians are the source of this, they’ll just get more cons to replace the old ones. I need to tear the weed up at the root._

Arthur mumbles something incoherent, nuzzles into the cushion he’s using as a pillow, and sighs softly.

 _I need to . . . I need . . ._ Alfred can’t help it. Watching Arthur takes all thoughts—all appropriate thoughts—from his head and replaces them with wordless temptation. _Touch._ Alfred has been attracted to plenty of people before (women, mostly, but a few men as well) but he’s never felt an urge to hold them, crush them against his body, and never let go.

 _Best to keep business and pleasure separate,_ a senior agent advised Alfred once. Alfred’s pretty sure it’s too late for that now. There’s a point where a complicated knot only gets worse, no matter what way you pull it.

Well, in any case, he can’t just lie here and watch Arthur sleep all morning. He gets up, stretches with needlessly loud noises of exertion. Then, still shirtless, he walks to the kitchenette and loudly closes every drawer and cabinet during the process of making tea. He pours in a dash of milk— _just a dash, you don’t want it to froth_ —then stirs it in with the spoon clanging against the sides of the mug at every opportunity.

Through all of that, Arthur doesn’t so much as twitch.

Alfred is about to nudge him awake when he hears a voice from the bedroom. A female, French voice. _Oh, right._ He’d forgotten about Francis’s late date. By the sounds of it, they’re arguing in there. The door opens, revealing the dark-skinned woman from last night hopping to put on her heels and Francis following casually behind. Alfred doesn’t know what the Frenchman says, but as soon as the words are out, Arthur lifts his head blearily. His eyes focus on the tea in Alfred’s hand and he takes it without hesitation, sipping as if from a holy chalice.

The woman pauses, seeing shirtless Alfred and sleepy Arthur. Then she makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and struts out, only lingering in the doorway long enough to hurl some nasty French at Francis before slamming the door in her wake.

Arthur lowers his cup, looking from shirtless Alfred to shirtless Francis. “It’s far too early for this many nipples.” His brow furrows. “Did you make this tea for me, Jones?”

Francis’s irritated expression tightens, though if it’s for the criticism of his nipples or the tea, Alfred cannot tell.

“Yup,” he replies cheerily. “Just the way you like it.”

Arthur takes another sip. “Shockingly,” he says, “it _is_ the way I like it.”

Alfred beams, ignoring the dagger eyes Francis shoots him in his peripheral vision. _Actually._ Alfred turns to face Francis, who quickly hides his anger. Alfred’s smile is a weapon. “What was your lady friend upset about?”

Francis makes himself busy in the kitchenette before Alfred can glimpse his expression. Rising from the loveseat, Arthur responds for the Frenchman: “Oh, how I loathe thee, unshorn gigolo. Thine sluttery knoweth no bounds.”

Alfred laughs. “That eloquent, huh?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, what I heard was mostly just curse words and issues with commitment. Or, should I say, her issues with Francis’s _lack_ of commitment.” His voice has hardened, gaze on the Frenchman.

Francis doesn’t turn around. “Say _commitment_ again. I think it may be catching on.”

Neither the words nor his tone are particularly biting, but Arthur still winces just a tiny bit; Alfred suspects he’s one of two people who could notice it, and the other currently has his back turned while he washes dishes. That hard-to-notice look reminds Alfred of the one he saw the first day he met the thieves, when Arthur seemed pained to describe Francis as his partner. _He has feelings for him,_ thinks Alfred. As he feared, the thought stirs envy within him. He’s never had a relationship last beyond a few months, for a variety of reasons. The last was because of work. _I won’t be the second most important thing in your life,_ she told him. _It’s me or nothing._ So he picked nothing. He doesn’t regret it. He’ll settle down with a farm and a wife and kids when he can’t chase after cons anymore.

He tries to imagine Arthur Kirkland saying _It’s me or nothing._ He can’t do it; Arthur takes as much pride in his work as Alfred does. He tries to imagine Arthur on a ranch, sleeves rolled up, boots mucky, covered in dust. This comes much easier. He imagines Arthur’s skin turned gold by the sun, the faint freckles on his nose spreading over his cheeks, his shoulders. _Beautiful._

“Jones.” Arthur is snapping his fingers in front of Alfred’s face. “Pay attention. I don’t speak just to hear my own voice.”

Francis snorts, glancing over his shoulder. “Says the man who uses a dozen words where two would do.”

The Englishman’s eyebrows spike upward. “Says the man whose language gives gender to inanimate objects, Gordon bloody Bennett.” He clears his throat pointedly, folding up his irritation and tucking it away for later. “Anyway. As I was saying. The Russians have requested us this afternoon.”

Alfred’s brow furrows. “When did they do that?”

“Last night.” Francis comes back into the living room, points to an envelope on the coffee table. “One of Natalya’s messenger boys found me.”

Alfred picks up the letter despite a “Don’t bother” from Arthur. The Englishman was correct, because Alfred’s eyes can make no sense of the symbols he assumes are Russian. Alfred drops the letter and asks, “Do they know about me? Am I coming?”

“Yes,” says Francis. “They know everything.”

“And no,” adds Arthur. “You’re not coming.”

Alfred frowns, indignant. “Why not?”

Francis steps beside Arthur, staring at Alfred. “Because,” he says slowly, “you are not invited.”

Alfred sees this blatant challenge and tips up his chin, eyes narrowing.

Arthur glances between them, sipping his tea calmly. Then he swallows and says, “When you two are done being subtle, put on shirts.” He takes another quick sip, puts down his cup, and heads for the bathroom. “Since I’m awake, I’m getting breakfast. The cafe on Queen Street misses us.”

Alfred can’t believe how pleased with himself Arthur looks—but then again, he supposes this attention from Alfred and Francis is quite the ego boost. Alfred might be mistaken, maybe, but he sees the smiles Arthur gives him. He feels Arthur’s gaze lingering on him. And he doesn’t see Arthur doing anything like that to Francis. There’s definitely something between the Englishman and the Frenchman, but more complicated and darker than the ill-advised something fervently blossoming between Arthur and Alfred. It seems to Alfred, for whatever reason, that he can have Arthur and Francis can’t.

Alfred turns to Francis. “Am I invited to breakfast?”

Francis opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Arthur calls, “Yes!”

Alfred lets a huge smile spread over his face. Francis glares, and surprises Alfred by saying in an undertone, “You think you know him, but you don’t. You don’t know anything about any of us. Do not act like you do.”

Alfred glances toward the closed bathroom door, then leans closer to the shorter man. “And you don’t know anything about me. So don’t act like you’re the boss. Especially when you’re being called to the Russians like a dog to his master.”

Something cold comes into Francis’s eyes, but he doesn’t snap. He just says, “As I said. You don’t know anything about any of us.” Then he retreats into the bedroom.

Alfred’s victory over this battle does little to soothe the anger he feels at seeing Francis and Arthur walk off together after breakfast, toward the Russians Alfred isn’t allowed to meet.

 _I have to stop them,_ he thinks. _They’re my mission. They’re the What._

Now he just needs to figure out that pesky How.

 

**MARKET SQUARE**

_“I have a job for you.”_

It doesn’t start immediately. There isn’t an abundance of organization. A quartet of people wielding picket signs stand in the center of the market. Their signs are written in French and English, because there’s no point in spreading hate speech that your opponent cannot comprehend.

_“You don’t usually call us in just to assign a job. This must be big.”_

Shoppers gradually take notice. Most ignore it, at first, but one by one they’re drawn into discussion, then debate, then argument. The side with the signs chants _French city, French rule!_ The opposition has no song, and so they struggle to be heard with raucous individual voices.

_“It is big. The biggest yet. A so-called political group has offered a large sum in exchange for one item.”_

When words go unheard, they resort to violence. Picket signs are torn from hands and stomped into rain puddles. Women are shoved. Men are punched. Within seconds, it is a brawl. Within minutes, it is hysteria. Faces are broken, market stalls are trashed, wares are strewn along the ground in the grit and blood—all in the name of one man.

_“You’re going to steal the crown of Roderich Edelstein.”_

 

Mathieu Williams just wanted to get some groceries. It was two birds with one stone. Three birds, actually: he was getting groceries at a more affordable price and he and Peter were getting exercise while they were at it. Berwald worried the boy was too static; he didn’t want him cooped up inside all the time. Tino fretted Peter would catch cold, but Mathieu assured them both that, as someone born and raised in Belfaux, a bit of rain never hurt anyone. Peter has short legs but a hardy spirit and a cheerful disposition that seems so rare these days. Mathieu’s favorite part of the day has become his walks with Peter’s little hand in his.

Until today, when they walk into a market full of aggression and terror. Mathieu has never seen sober men act this crazily before. Tempers flare with alcohol, but this is a lower, deeper-seated hatred. This isn’t personal. This is anger based on belief, the most dangerous of all.

“Nana?” says Peter, looking up with wide eyes. “Why are they doing that?”

Mathieu cannot respond, because he has no time. He thought he was safe from the madness, standing off to the side with a young child of all things. But no. A tall man sets his crazed eye on Mathieu and asks something in what Mathieu thinks is German. Without thinking, he replies, “Je ne parle pas allemand.” He wishes he could swallow the words. He is French. He is the enemy to this man. Heart pounding, he turns to Peter. “Run,” he says in English, because that is what they speak in the Oxenstierna house. “Run, Peter—”

The man grabs Mathieu by the collar. He stumbles, falls to the wet ground. Peter cries out, too frightened to flee, and Mathieu sees the glint of a blade in the man’s hand. _Please, God,_ he finds himself thinking, _please don’t let Peter watch._

A gunshot. At first, things worsen. People scream; Mathieu fears someone has opened fire on civilians. Then another shot from a pistol pointed skyward, and a male voice shouting firm German words. The people clear, backing away from each other, wary of the newcomers Mathieu sees crossing the street, slipping from between buildings like wolves between trees, guns in their hands and black eagles on their arms.

The Nachtadlers have arrived.

With relief, Mathieu watches his assailant turn tail and run. When he moves to get up, he nearly knocks his face into an outstretched hand. He looks up.

Gilbert Beilschmidt looks down at him with surprising kindness. “Still in one piece?”

Mathieu nods too vehemently, taking the hand and letting Gilbert pull him to his feet. Mathieu can feel everyone’s eyes on them, and he—perhaps selfishly—fears what this could do to his reputation, if word spread that Gilbert Beilschmidt spoke to him. He won’t lose his job as Peter’s nanny, he feels certain, so he needn’t worry. He has no friends aside from Berwald, Tino, and Peter. And little Hana, even if she is a dog.

Gilbert’s attention shifts from Mathieu to Peter. The four-year-old is trembling beside Mathieu, but when those red eyes find him, he gains the courage to say, “My papa says you’re a bad guy.”

Gilbert’s face softens with such paternal fondness that Mathieu is shaken by this misplaced feeling of familiarity. Has Peter met Gilbert somewhere before? He knows they haven’t, but somehow the gang leader looks like he’s known Peter forever.

Peter seems unsure now. “ _Are_ you a bad guy?”

Gilbert considers this. “Your papa is pretty tall, isn’t he? Taller than me. I bet I do look like a bad guy from up there.” He crouches down to Peter’s level. “But I’m not so scary down here, am I?”

Peter purses his lips and squints, in deep concentration. Then he shakes his head. “Not so scary.”

Gilbert smiles, chucks Peter under the chin. “Good boy. You’ll keep safe and grow up strong like your father, right?”

Peter grins with more gaps than teeth. “Right!”

Gilbert stands up, his easy expression of happiness already fading. Mathieu has a million questions, but he can’t ask any of them because Gilbert isn’t paying attention to him, or to Peter. Gilbert’s gaze is on a man on the other side of the market. Someone called the police.

Ludwig Beilschmidt stares at Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Both of their faces are impossible to read. Flat lips, hard eyes.

The market is silent.

Both are waiting for an apology, but neither are willing to give one first.

Finally, Gilbert gives another order to his Nachtadlers. The gang is gone so fast it’s hard to remember where they stood when they were here. Ludwig still says nothing. Gilbert shakes his head, then notices Mathieu with faint surprise.

“Merci,” murmurs Mathieu, out of a mix of fear, respect, and gratitude.

Gilbert’s smile is pensive, but genuine. “De rein.”

One last glance at his brother. Nothing. A nod to Mathieu. Then the Prussian is gone.

As if nothing is out of the ordinary, Ludwig begins questioning people about the riot.

Mathieu takes Peter’s hand and hurries toward the French Shore. The prices may be higher, but at least it’s safe—in more than one sense of the word. No riots, yes, but no secrets either. Oh, there are plenty of truths kept hidden, but they are well, well hidden among the upper classes. None of the unspoken ugliness like that between the Beilschmidt brothers. Those are the truly bad secrets, in Mathieu’s opinion. If no one knows about something, it can’t bother them. But when the secret pokes out like a broken bone, it’s just that—painful, messy, and dangerous.

 _Well,_ thinks Mathieu, _at least if something horrible does happen, Peter will be safe. After all, why would evil people have any interest in him?_

 

**ROOK STREET**

While the thieves speak with the Russians and a riot briefly rages in midtown, Alfred spends an hour at St. Raphaela’s, talking with Antonio. The pimp has a private room with a bathroom connected to one side and an office connected to the other. Alfred expects to hear moans and thumping headboards, but the place is surprisingly quiet. “People are at work,” explains Antonio. “They don’t start coming until evening. They come here to get out stress.”

Alfred used to get rid of stress by walking through the woods, but there’s no woods on this island. A claustrophobic thought. “All kinds of kinds, huh?”

Antonio clasps his fingers together; the difficulty such a simple thing gives him reminds Alfred of his arthritic grandmother, God rest her soul. “From all over,” says the Spaniard. “Even Russians come here, when they come.”

Alfred’s brow furrows, confused by the phrasing. “When they come?”

“When they visit. When they come to get their money, and the things the thieves steal.” Antonio has the same curious expression he got when Alfred first showed up asking to chat. “They don’t live here. They only come for business.”

And pleasure, apparently. Alfred leans forward slightly. “Gotta be honest, I’m fascinated by these guys. Everybody’s talking about them, but I can’t see them. Like God.”

Antonio shakes his head. “They are the opposite of God.”

“How bad are we talking?”

The Spaniard lifts his hands. “They . . .” He looks up from the trembling, scarred fingers. “They break people. They break people on purpose so they’ll be indebted to them.”

“Did they break Gilbert?”

“Nothing could break Gilbert.”

“Arthur?”

“. . . Not that I know of. Not directly.”

“What about Francis?”

Antonio’s gaze wanders. “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know anything about Francis’s past. He never talks about it. All I know is that Natalya raised him.”

Alfred’s eyebrows rise. “No kidding? So whose side is he on? Ours or theirs?”

Antonio smiles uneasily. “We all work together.”

One brow drops, exasperated. “Come on. You know what I mean. You guys honestly want to work under those parasites forever?”

“I . . .” Antonio picks up a pocket watch from his desk. “Is that the time? I really have work I need to do—”

“Toni.” Alfred gives him a soft, genuine smile. “You can trust me. I seriously wanna help you guys.”

Antonio hesitates. “I thought you wanted to make money. Quick dime.”

 _Don’t get too comfortable. Keep it believable, keep it safe._ “That, too. But I want you guys to make money with me. I like you. I don’t like those Russians. They’re bleeding you all dry. I hate that rich-get-richer garbage.”

The Spaniard wants to believe him; he can see it in those green eyes, plaintive like a sad hound dog’s. “I don’t like it either,” he says carefully. “But it’s the deal I agreed to. I have to follow the rules. They’re big and I’m small.”

Alfred ponders the risk of this final question before going for it: “If someone tried to put those Russians down, whose side would you be on?”

Antonio’s eyes widen. Then he looks down at his hands, battered bronze. Quietly, something dangerous in his eyes Alfred has not seen until now, Antonio says, “I would happily watch them burn.”

Alfred smiles, standing. “Glad to hear it, Toni. I’ll let you get to work.”

And now he’s back in the flat, pondering the allegiance of the new friends he’s been making, when Arthur and Francis return. Arthur’s mind must be racing, because his eyes are bright and words are flowing from his lips like a waterfall. When he sees Alfred, however, his mouth veers into a question: “Did you see the riot in the market?”

“Uh, no. I was at church. What happened?”

“The French against the not-French, it seems,” says Arthur. “Fighting over whether Roderich Edelstein is a good Grand Duke or not. As if that will solve anything.”

“Pacifism is less efficient than violence,” says Francis, dropping a legal pad on the small dining table that has never been used for dining.

Arthur scowls at the words and the slap of paper on wood. “Let’s see you shoot someone up, then. Break open their skull, splash dark blood on the walls. Brains on the floor, in chunks. It’s grey, I hear. But it would be red, of course, once it’s out.”

Francis grimaces at the gore his partner describes with relish. “ _Stop_ it.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

Alfred breaks in before it can continue. “Was anybody actually killed?”

“No,” they reply in unison.

“Thankfully,” adds Francis, making Arthur give him a faintly amused look.

Alfred watches Arthur sit down at the table, scribbling on the legal pad with a fountain pen. Alfred has blocky writing, usually in all-caps, but Arthur’s is elegant and slanted as if to help the eye across the page. Alfred stands on the other side of the table and tilts his head, trying to read upside-down.

“You’re in my light, Jones,” murmurs Arthur, without pausing or looking up.

Alfred backs off, glances at Francis. “What did Natalya want?”

“She gave us a new job. A heist.” The Frenchman finger-combs his hair, looking in a small mirror on the wall. “She wants us to steal the Grand Duke’s crown.”

Alfred glances between them. “Is that as big a deal as it sounds?”

“It’s certainly not a small deal,” remarks Arthur, scratching something out. “It’s kept in the Royal Bank, in its own private vault. We’ll have to use a whatever she called it. Blow lamp.”

“Is that the same as a blow torch?” asks Alfred.

“Oui,” replies Francis. “That will be simple. The complication comes with sneaking in.”

“And out.”

“I could help,” offers Alfred. “I mean, if something went wrong—”

“No.” Francis shakes his head, voice firm. “You are too inexperienced. You will be in the way. Besides, when things are allowed to go wrong, they probably will. Margin for error makes cons sloppy.”

Alfred pulls a chair and straddles it beside Arthur. “Sure, but if we don’t have any breathing room, we’ll suffocate.”

Francis steps closer, looming over Alfred with narrowed eyes.

Alfred is about to stand up and show how much difference three inches makes when you’re built, but Arthur speaks before he can. “Francis,” he says absently, gaze still on his work, “stop trying to menace. You’re embarrassing me.”

Francis looks at his partner, then at the American. The frustration and regret is so palpable Alfred can taste it, bitter on his tongue. Without a word of farewell, the gentleman thief grabs his coat and his hat and leaves.

Alfred waits for Arthur to speak first. When he doesn’t, Alfred leans so his chin rests on Arthur’s shoulder. He expects immediate protest, but none comes. Alfred watches Arthur draw diagrams of rooms and streets, labeling them all neatly. His hand never pauses, and Alfred realizes he’s writing out the thoughts streaming through his head. On paper, they look like this: _go through front full view no through back patrolling watchman but feasible pick lock pass diversion roundabout route past guards into back once there no attention._

“Y’know, I expected you to think out loud,” murmurs Alfred. “Since you talk so much.”

Arthur smirks, but _still_ doesn’t look up, proving to Alfred that his thinking of the Englishman as a workaholic is correct. “Cheek,” mumbles Arthur, the mildest retort he’s ever given. It doesn’t even sound irritated. Actually, replaying it in his head, it sounds downright fond.

Alfred smiles. “Can I ask a question about your plans?”

The scrawling finally pauses. “I’ll give you one question.” Their faces are so close together, Alfred could stretch and kiss those soft cheeks. “I can’t entertain you and plan at the same time.”

“Oh, I don’t need to be entertained. Don’t worry.” Alfred’s tone wanders toward a more serious edge. “I just wanna know what you think about taking down the Russians, and if that can be fit into this plan.”

Arthur’s gaze, a moment ago full of several thoughts and emotions, now clears in shock. “Excuse me? What do you mean by _taking down_? Do you mean killing? Because that is suicide. Do you mean arresting? Because that is also suicide.”

Alfred lifts his head from Arthur’s shoulder. “But why is it suicide?”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Because . . . well, because . . .” Now he looks irritated. “Because they’re strong and we’re not. So we’ll try to stop them and they will kill us, and they’ll do it slowly so we learn our lesson several times over.”

Alfred keeps his tone mostly friendly. “But if we lock up Natalya? Their leader? Would someone take her place?”

Arthur shifts, crossing his legs under the table. “Listen.” He looks toward the door, sighs, then turns intense eyes on Alfred. “I agree that you should focus on them. I don’t want my friends to be arrested. Who would? The Russians aren’t my friends. I wish they didn’t exist. But they do. I don’t doubt that there is a way you could pull it off, but it will be dangerous and messy. Probably very messy. Probably you’ll get something ripped off of you or shot into you.” He holds up a hand to silence Alfred. “Don’t make me watch you die. Don’t do that.”

Alfred feels his own expression soften. He takes Arthur’s hand. “I don’t want to do that to you. But I also don’t want people to get hurt. I want to clean this city up, for everyone’s sake. This can’t go on forever, I know you know that.” He gives the hand a gentle squeeze. “I think this is worth the gamble. And the more you work with me, the safer this’ll be. For everybody.”

Arthur presses his lips together, exhaling slowly through his nose. He looks at Alfred’s mouth longer than strictly necessary, then turns back to the legal pad. “Alright, then,” he says. “Let’s work with each other.”

So for the next few hours, they plan. Arthur scribbles out his thoughts— _they flow faster through ink than they would out loud_ —and Alfred reads along and occasionally asks for translations and specifications. They discuss the details of the bank, the back rooms, the basement, the vault. Arthur tells Alfred everything he knows about the Russians, which is not a lot. They discuss who is on their side (Antonio and Gilbert) and who is caught in between (Francis). And through the whole thing, they still hold hands.

Eventually, Arthur drops the pen and lets go of Alfred’s hand, rubbing his temples. “I can’t bear to think about this any longer. I have a headache and it’s giving me a migraine.”

Alfred knows the feeling of thinking about something until his brain hurts. “Let’s take a break, then.” He stands up, offering a hand. “Get some fresh air.”

Arthur drags his hands down his face, looks up at Alfred, and smiles lightly. “Let me fetch a hat.”

 

**DOWNTOWN**

Arthur takes Alfred everywhere. They walk through midtown first, where Arthur points out little things no one else would notice about the shops and cideries and bakeries. The best of all, according to Alfred, is the knitwear shop owned by a New Zealander who keeps a small flock of sheep in his cellar. On the way from midtown to downtown, they pass the foundry, a great smoking dragon corpse; Alfred chokes on the noxious smell of burning metal, but Arthur is unbothered by it. _Tainted,_ thinks Alfred, sadly. _Survival,_ thinks Arthur. No use being sad about that. Downtown, they pass the Diamond Kite. “That’s Antonio’s old haunt.”

“What did the Russians do to him?”

“I’ve never asked. But he was never the same. He claims he’s a better man now. I can’t say if that’s true or not. I didn’t know him before.”

“Huh. Why’s it called that, by the way? Isn’t every diamond shaped like a kite?”

“Kites can be other shapes. But in this instance it refers to the slang for a forged cheque. The diamond bit is because supposedly if you cash out the casino, they’ll give you a collection of diamonds worth millions.”

“Has that happened?”

“Of course not. They don’t have any diamonds in there. No real ones.”

“So what will they do if someone wins big?”

“No one ever will. It’s fixed. An impossibility. Just something to draw people in until they’re well and truly addicted to ruining their lives.”

Walking with Arthur on this grand tour reminds Alfred of walking with his father as a child, surrounded by things he doesn’t know about, being told countless stories he would never have known otherwise. People greet Arthur, too, just like they had greeted Alfred’s father. Arthur nods to some and tips his hat to others. No one greets Alfred. He feels like Arthur’s bodyguard. _Guardian._

He notices a poster on the sidewall of a tobacco shop and tugs Arthur over by the hand. “Look at that beauty.”

Arthur regards the poster, which portrays a sketch of his likeness, WANTED in bold above and smaller text offering a reward for his arrest below. The thief seems mildly surprised. “Oh, would you look at that. _Infamous Thief,_ apparently. I should pay Chief Ludwig for advertising, hm?”

Alfred laughs. “Does any of this ever get to you? Any of it at all?”

Arthur twines their fingers. “Nope, I delight in this fractured, feral life.” He glances at him, with less humor on his face than in his voice. “Don’t you?”

“No,” replies Alfred, too fast.

“Ah.” Arthur smiles now. “The claws have sunk in. Terrible thing, lowering yourself into the muck for the sake of method acting only to realize you like to be a little dirty.”

Alfred tries to ignore that delectable smirk around the last word. “Granted, but didn’t you ever want to be something else? Something clean? Didn’t you ever want to make an honest living?”

Arthur tips his head back to let out a lovely, musical laugh. “An honest living? Living is complicated enough without honesty getting involved.”

They find themselves in a place called Waterblessed Gardens. The gardens are indeed blessed by water; there is more water than plants, at first glance. A fountain pours water from the mouth of a forlorn stone mermaid, but there’s a maze to walk through before this can be reached, paths that cut between an endless array of differently shaped ponds. Alfred is struck by how oddly clever it is—why trim hedges into shapes when you could just cut holes into the ground and let them fill with rain water and lilies? There are some bushes, rose bushes that form little alcoves for lovers’ benches. It’s on one of these benches, stone carved with hearts and initials, that Alfred and Arthur sit now. The pink-tinted clouds reflect on the still ponds below; the only sounds are the burbling mermaid and a street musician they passed earlier playing with his accordion like it’s an old friend.

“This might be the nicest part of Belfaux,” says Alfred.

“I could easily ruin it for you,” offers Arthur. “More than one person has drowned in these blessed waters.”

Alfred grimaces. “That’s not morbid at all. What was it, drunkards?”

Arthur looks down at his lap, pensive. “One was, yes.” He shrugs, looking up at the sky. “Everywhere has its ghost, its sinners.”

“Belfaux has too many sinners.”

The thief shrugs again. “Or just not enough ghosts, I suppose.”

Alfred puts an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “So what were you, before all this? Before Arthur Kirkland? No names need be mentioned,” he adds quickly, remembering the night before.

Arthur tenses beside him, takes a deep breath. “I was a little girl. Everyone trusts a little girl. Everyone takes pity on a little lost girl. No one would ever think she was reaching into your pocket.”

Alfred leans forward, trying to meet Arthur’s gaze, but the thief is looking into the distance. He _sounds_ distant, set apart from the words he says. Alfred asks, “Your father used you?”

“Taught me. Used me. I earned my keep. What man wants to father a child on his own? I don’t know who or where the mother is, before you ask.” Arthur pats his pockets, searching for cigarettes, but finds none. “My father went out most nights, left me alone in our little shack while he gambled. Sometimes he brought women back with him. One day when we were working the market, I got caught. He told me to run, and I did. I got away. I don’t know if he did. I went home to wait for him.” He shrugs, a third time. “He never came.”

Alfred stares. “So he just—abandoned you?”

“Most likely. It’s for the best. He would have abandoned me anyway, once I became Arthur. He was the traditional sort.” Arthur finally looks at Alfred, now that he’s certain he won’t tear up. “What about you? What did you come from?”

“A farm. Sheep ranch, in Tennessee.” He smiles fondly, remembering it. _Home._ “Huntin’ and fishin’ and herdin’ sheep and trainin’ horses. Hard work, all day, and big ol’ dinners on the table when it’s done. No trouble sleepin’ there.”

Arthur smiles, too. “I didn’t realize you had that accent. It’s quite the twang. I rather like it. Very, ah, rustic.”

Now Alfred smirks. “Yessiree. I’m a country boy, born and bred.”

“So that’s where you’ll go, then? When this is all over?”

Alfred sees Arthur, really sees him: pale skin, sandy hair, green eyes, all of it warmed by the veiled sunset. He’s covering up sadness, a lot of different pieces of sadness. Hope, too, is peeking through the layers. And longing. Did Francis turn him away? Alfred can’t imagine it, but then again, these people are hard to believe. _I won’t do that to him._

“I haven’t decided yet,” murmurs Alfred, hand gently cupping Arthur’s cheek. “I dunno if I could stand to be so far from you.”

Arthur leans in, but controls himself enough to speak first. “This won’t be a fling,” he whispers, eyelids low. “I won’t be _sometimes_ for you. Or for anyone.”

“I don’t want sometimes.” Alfred kisses the tip of his nose. “I want always.”

Arthur’s eyes open, and he laughs, and so their first kiss is with joyful eyes meeting above laughing lips meeting above loving hands meeting. They kiss on the bench in the faintly pink evening air through which the accordion weaves its old forgotten love songs. Their words from the planning hours echo: _I want to keep you safe. I’ll risk myself, not you. You can trust me. I promise, you can count on me. I won’t lie to you. You’re different than I thought you were. You’re better._

Alfred pulls back, voice thick, vision fuzzy. “Damn. Back to the flat?”

Arthur’s cheeks are pink now, his lips a little wet from Alfred’s over-eager tongue. “No,” he says, his voice closest to a woman’s Alfred has heard so far. He’s letting down his walls, or perhaps the kiss brought them down without Arthur’s choosing. “Come with me.”

Arthur leads him away from the calm of the Gardens and instead into the entertainment district’s naughty sister, the red-light district. Dames swing their skirts at Alfred; the cobbles of the no-car street are covered with flower petals. Arthur knows they come from the city’s florists when the flowers begin to perish without being bought, but to Alfred it’s magic and Arthur delights in seeing this city seduce him. Jazz and java from the dance halls ooze and echo across the ever-narrowing street.

“My legs is chilly, brooksies,” calls a shore whore in a gratingly squeaky voice. “Warm ’em up for me?”

Alfred clearly has no idea how to respond to a prostitute, so Arthur shakes his head, smiling politely. “No thank you, madam. Look on the bright side, eh? No rain this fine evening. Nice to be dry for a change.”

Her laugh screeches like a rusty hinge. “I’d rather be wet!”

If Arthur isn’t mistaken, the tips of Alfred’s ears have turned red. Arthur grins, feeling wild and precarious. Anything could happen tonight. No more holding back for Francis’s sake, for safety. They’re planning to take down Natalya Arlovskaya, for God’s sake. _Fuck safety!_

They go into an emaciated black building that looks more like a stray cat than a place to stay. Inside is as dark as the outside; the only light comes from a lamp behind a frosted glass window. This is the only window in the building, Alfred realizes. “Welcome to the One Window House,” whispers Arthur, into his ear. Alfred sees the little slot beneath the frosted glass, how it looks like the enclosed booth that someone would sit in to give tickets at a theater. “A no-tell motel,” murmurs Alfred, which makes them exchange a small knowing smile, excited to be in on this secret together.

Someone must be behind the glass, because when Arthur slips some notes under the gap, they vanish swiftly and an androgynous voice says, “Enjoy your night.”

Arthur leads the way upstairs. The floorboards are tacky under their shoes. Alfred isn’t so sure he wants to sleep in a place like this, until they go into the room. The bedclothes are a glossy red, silk or something similar. There are a few candles on a small shelf, making Alfred’s eyes frustrated with their inability to focus. He’d rather have his eyes closed in here, but he guesses that’s the point. There’s a radio, but Arthur doesn’t turn it on. He sets his hat on a coat hook and smiles at Alfred. The room smells like Francis, which is to say like bloom and yeast: roses and perfume, bread and sex.

_No thinking about Francis. Just Alfred. That’s all._

Without hesitation, Arthur goes to Alfred and kisses him. They have more or less the same amount of experience with this, so they take turns leading, tentative at first and then more confident as the other moans or sighs. Alfred’s hips urge Arthur toward the bed, but Arthur spins them at the last second so Alfred sits and Arthur kneels between his legs. Alfred looks down at the thief, eyes wide, breathless. Arthur meets his gaze with the same expression, then looks down at the bulge straining against Alfred’s jeans.

Arthur lifts a hand, but pauses. _Do unto others._ Softly, he asks, “Can I touch?”

Alfred looks surprised to be asked, but he nods.

Arthur rubs him through the denim, first, then through his boxers, and finally—once Alfred has stood to strip and sat down again—skin-on-skin. It’s hotter than Arthur thought it would be, and harder, too. _Because of me,_ he thinks. _He’s like this for me._ The thought twists below his belly, excitement dampening his briefs. Alfred watches with lustful eyes as Arthur strokes his cock, thrusting slightly into his hand every now and then. Arthur has been nervous about this moment for so many years, but it turns out dicks are no big deal. They’re actually rather fun.

Arthur leans closer, looks up at Alfred. “Do you want me to suck on it?”

A tiny shiver from the American; a droplet of precum trickles down to Arthur’s fingers. Huskily, Alfred says, “Yes. Please.”

Careful of his teeth, Arthur slowly slides the head into his mouth. It tastes bitter, salty, but being from the English Shore it’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten. And as he slowly takes in more, as his nose fills with the scent of musk, as Alfred’s fingers find a hold in his hair—the fear he felt submitting to Francis doesn’t come. In fact—he moans around the cock in his mouth—he’s starting to love this. _Slut,_ he thinks at himself, trying out the word. It’s just another throb between his legs.

“Oh, God—” Alfred tugs Arthur’s head up so abruptly it hurts his scalp, but he’s distracted from the pain by the American’s cock, which twitches like it’s alive before falling back against his abdomen. Arthur waits, expectantly, but no white comes.

“Did you—”

“No.” Alfred’s panting. “Almost.”

“Oh. Why did you stop?”

“I thought . . .” Alfred’s brow furrows. “Are we not having sex?”

Arthur glances around. “Is that a trick question?”

“I mean, me in you.” Surprisingly, Alfred is flustered by the words.

“There are lots of different ways to feel pleasure.” Arthur stands up, starts to take off his clothes. “I don’t want to be on my back.”

“Uh . . . okay.” Alfred starts to get up. “So . . . hands and knees?”

The thought isn’t immediately repulsive, but Arthur doesn’t want to risk it. So long as he’s on top, it’s safe. So he pushes Alfred down on the bed and climbs on top of him wearing nothing but the bandages around his chest. As Francis advised him years ago, the bedside drawer is stocked with condoms. Arthur reaches to grab one. He puts it on incorrectly, so Alfred rolls it down over himself. Arthur starts to find his seat, but Alfred grasps his wrist to stop him.

“Wait,” he says. “You used your mouth on me. Shouldn’t I, you know, return the favor?”

Arthur pauses, considering. “I wouldn’t be against that.”

Which is how they end up with Arthur lying atop Alfred, the American’s tongue doing dastardly beautiful things to his clitoris, the Englishman’s lips tenderly mouthing Alfred’s testicles, both of them asking _Okay?_ and _Like this?_ at intervals to affirmative groans. Arthur does as Alfred did and moves away before he can come. Alfred has him soaked, so they come together far easier than Arthur thought they would. The cock causes no pain, no bleeding, just pressure that burns into pleasure as Alfred begins to thrust. Arthur grinds to and fro for a while, then incorporates a small bounce into his rhythm. Alfred sucks on his neck, rather desperate, hands squeezing Arthur’s thighs. _I love you._ Both of them gasp it between heavy breaths. _I love you._ Neither can remember who said it first, and both know they should be more wary, more hesitant to throw out such an important phrase, but they cannot care. _I love you._

It is, at long last, the truth.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chappie is short. The next one is full o' plot, I promise :P
> 
> Also, the lullaby isn't actually a lullaby. My apologies to Rudyard Kipling for smuggling a choice bit of his Smuggler's Song.

**_1 9 2 7_ **

 

A night in Belfaux.

 

In the One Window House, Alfred and Arthur spoon between silky sheets. Alfred’s arms keep Arthur’s back pressed close to his chest. When slumber compels Arthur’s body to shift away, Alfred’s arms tighten around him. Alfred groans softly. Arthur gives the lightest sigh.

Alfred dreams of Arthur dancing in the rain, swinging and hopping and splashing through puddles as if they’re not water but liquid music. The street is empty but for the thief; Alfred is there only as a distant observer. He feels a yearning to call out, but interrupting the dance would be more painful than loneliness. So he watches. _Mine._

Arthur dreams of Alfred’s hands, the hands Arthur thought would never be able to sneak into pockets and purses. Large, strong hands with calloused palms and tough knuckles. Arthur doesn’t dream of the actions, but he dreams of the feeling: the heel of his hand cupping Arthur’s jaw, the tips of his fingers squeezing Arthur’s thighs. The warmth of Alfred’s hand held by his own. _Mine._

Without waking, Alfred slips a leg between Arthur’s and nuzzles into his hair. Arthur mumbles something intelligible, but the meaning is easily translated into one word.

_Ours._

 

Francis sleeps alone.

It’s been a long, long time since he slept alone. Even when Arthur wasn’t there, he would always share his bed with at least one other person. But tonight, the woman he brings back to the flat leaves before they even take off their clothes. _You don’t want me, you just want a hole in the wall!_ One of those types. She thinks it’s only about the sex, but that’s just a single part of it. Sleeping with someone doesn’t only mean orgasm. Francis doesn’t explain that to her, though. He just lets her find her own way out of the flat and lies there in bed, with only bitter jealousy and even more bitter regret to keep him company.

He knows why Alfred and Arthur haven’t come home yet.

He closes his eyes, tangles his fingers tight in his hair. Oh, that damned American. Of course he would swoop in and snatch Arthur, lovelorn and just waiting to find someone to forget about Francis with. _It’s only half my fault._ He taught Arthur the lesson: love is not for cons. It gets in the way. It’s not worth the risk. It is an incredible weakness.

 _If I could have you,_ thinks Francis, heartbroken green eyes flashing in his mind, _I would have you already._

The eyes linger there, along with the beautiful face and the body they belong to. Francis’s hand takes him from pleasure to slumber; he drifts, drifts, and then he is dreaming.

He dreams of performing. Natalya took him to see an opera when he was only six, and ever since he has been in love with the stage. He wanted to stand in those glorious spotlights, in fabulous costume, with hundreds of eyes on him, loving him. In his dream, that’s just where he is. Francis waltzes across the stage, glowing as the audience cries out his name, delirious with how much they adore him. He doesn’t do any magic or dancing, doesn’t sing or even speak. His performance is himself. At last, something worth praise.

Once, a young boy waiting for his father, looking up in delight when the thief finally came home—only for that bright face to fall when his father walked by, ignoring him completely.

Once, a young boy waiting for his adoptive mother to stop hurting him, biting his lip and trying so, so hard not to cry. _Cons don’t cry,_ she told him, in that perpetual chilly tone. _Big boys like you don’t cry._ Blades, tiny blades, to teach him not to squirm or weep. _Vanya didn’t cry. I’m sure you want to grow up strong like him._ The scars are hard to notice, unless you’re looking for them. The most important lesson from Natalya: _Do not feel._ Not only love, but anything at all. Emptiness, that’s how you become successful.

Now, on the stage in his dreams, Francis takes a bow so deep his golden hair nearly brushes the sparkling floor. Every member of the audience stands, cheers, and claps. The applause washes over him, absolves him. Damaged goods no more.

Finally, he is whole.

 

Antonio sleeps alone in his private room. He would have an Italian beside him, but Lovino is curled up with Feliciano, who has again gone to sleep with tears dampening his cheeks. Feliciano dreams of lost love, the aching safety of Ludwig’s arms. Lovino dreams of a world where he and his brother can live carefree, laughing on a beach with their toes in the water. Down the hall, Antonio might as well be having the same dream, though his is infinitely less complicated. Feliciano dreams of a man, Lovino dreams of a beach, and Antonio?

Antonio dreams of the sun.

 

Abel dreams of a small white cat. No matter how many times he picks it up and sets it on a windowsill, the cat continues to jump down into the soot below. Its fur turns grey, then black. _Why are you doing this?_ he eventually asks, exasperated.

The cat replies in Greek, but Abel doesn’t speak Greek, so he’ll never know.

 

Mathieu dreams of black eagles flying through the streets, flapping oily wings that smudge the air. Down the hall, Peter dreams of being a mighty pirate of the seven seas (a dream that, inevitably, leads to a wet bed). In Berwald’s arms, Tino dreams of making smiley-faced pancakes for Peter the next morning. Berwald dreams of paperwork, which is why he thinks he never dreams, because he never remembers his dreams, because who would recall dreaming about paperwork?

On her little bed in the kitchen, Hana dreams of thunder. Her own twitching wakes her up, and she lifts her head. There is rain, as usual, but no sky-growls tonight. She gives her duckie toy a gentle squeeze, to verify its existence and to comfort them both. Then she tucks her nose under her paw and returns to the heavenly rest of a small white dog.

 

Mathias dreams of the same thing every night, and tonight is no different. He doesn’t know where he is, but he knows someone needs him. He has to get somewhere, immediately. He has to hurry. He sprints, but he goes nowhere. His limbs do not obey. He grits his teeth, growls, screams. Tears of pure frustration pour down his face, well up in the street, flood the whole island. _I need you,_ someone is crying. _Please, help me!_

 _I’m trying,_ he says, but he has no voice. _I’m sorry._

He bolts upright, throat burning. Too late.

_I’m so fucking sorry._

He buries his face in his hands and sobs.

 

Ludwig dreams of flying. It should be joyous and powerful. Instead, it is a nightmare. He cannot fly away, he has to stay here, in his city. He has work to do, problems to solve, crimes to stop. He digs his fingers into the cobbles, grabs hold of buildings and lampposts, but still he is dragged upward, away from his responsibilities, away from the people who rely on him. He reaches for the ground, for something, anything to keep him rooted to his world—and he grasps something. He looks down.

His brother holds his hand, skin like moonlight, eyes like drops of blood.

Before Ludwig can attempt swallowing the pride in his mouth to make room for words of gratitude, Gilbert’s grip loosens. _Bruder,_ gasps Ludwig. _Nein!_

But the leader of the Nachtadlers only smirks. _Falle nicht._

And he lets go.

 

Gilbert dreams of family. He dreams of sitting with his mother, the soft pale of her hair, golden but silvery like his where the light hit it. There’s no light in the bedroom, however; it’s nighttime. He’s awake; Ludwig is asleep downstairs. Their mother is ill, has been for some time, but never this poorly. She’s not old, not wrinkled. She looks beautiful, that’s what Gilbert thinks. She has always been beautiful to him.

She opens her eyes, blue like Ludwig’s, watery like a wet painting. Her fingers twitch, barely able to be lifted. Gilbert holds her hand in both of his, meeting her eyes sadly.

_Mutti._

Gilbert is grateful for many things in his life, but he has never been more thankful for anything than he is for this: he went to stay with his mother and his brother that night. He hadn’t seen either of them for months before that. Ludwig gave him the cold shoulder from the moment he walked in the door, but their mother was happy to see him. He couldn’t say why he’d come; he just felt, out of the clear blue, like he _had_ to be there. And then, that night, when he just happened to glance through the gap of her ajar door, he saw her frail hand reaching for something. She was asleep, or half-asleep, or half-lost in a haze of sickness. He sat with her, gently took her hand. She calmed.

 _I love you,_ she told him raspily. _My brave boy._

Strong, his friends would have said. Stupid, his brother would have said.

But not his mother.

He thought her beautiful. She thought him brave.

_I love you, too._

He didn’t wake Ludwig. He didn’t wake him when her eyes drooped, when her wrist grew limp, when her breathing slowed to a halt. He just sat with her, all night, and when dawn came, he stood up, let go of her stiff hand, and went to his room. He couldn’t begin to explain what compelled him to take off his clothes, get into bed, and close his eyes.

He heard Ludwig’s footsteps. They went straight to the master bedroom, first thing. Gilbert braced himself, but his heart still wasn’t ready for the sound of Ludwig’s voice, small like a child’s, wavering as he asked, _Mutti? Mutti?_

Gilbert got up, got dressed, and joined his brother in kneeling beside the bed. Gilbert put his arm around his sobbing brother. He expected Ludwig to shove him away, but instead his little brother buried his face in Gilbert’s shoulder. That was the last time he touched his brother.

On his sofa/bed in the warehouse, Gilbert wakes up. He wipes his eyes dry and breathes in and out slowly, like Abel showed him years ago. _It’ll get better,_ he thinks, trying for optimism. _Ludwig and Arthur and Toni won’t get hurt, and Alfred and Roderich will fix everything._

(As if anything could get done in this city without Gilbert getting involved somehow.)

He sighs. _I hope when the shit hits the fan I get a good night’s sleep the night before._

Then he goes back to sleep, but he doesn’t dream again.

 

Roderich dreams of music. Everyone he cares about are music notes in a beautiful melody. Lucille guides it, Basch steadies it, and Gilbert makes it loud, gorgeously loud, louder than Roderich has ever been bold enough to be. The song rings through Roderich’s heart, at once what he was, what he is, and what he wants to be.

Then the cons come in, twisting it into a discordant harmony. Arthur and Antonio and every Nacthadler break through the beauty, tainting and terrorizing. The notes shriek like banshees, like banshees being murdered. It cannot get worse.

And then every single citizen of Belfaux piles on, a thousand individual notes clanging and screeching and bellowing all at once, and it sounds like the end of the goddamned world.

Roderich wakes up at a hideous time of morning between midnight and dawn. He touches his ears, feeling for blood, convinced he was damaged by the deafening nightmare. His heart feels sick with anxiety; he wishes Gilbert could come through the window right now, right now, right now. _Don’t,_ he thinks at himself. _Don’t whine. Don’t wish to be saved. You’re the leader. You have to stand on your own feet._

It takes a few hours of fretting, but he does finally return to slumber by imagining he is a little tot once again, tucked in by his mother while she sings to him. _Five and twenty ponies,_ she sings as he settles into his pillows. _Trotting through the dark._ He closes his eyes, takes a final deep breath, and breathes out as sleep washes over him, dark relief. His mother’s voice echoes through his dreams. _Laces for a lady and letters for a spy._

His father’s voice lovingly joins hers, watching their pretty son find brief peace.

_Watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by._

 

Natalya Arlovskaya doesn’t dream, because she doesn’t sleep.

She waits.


	13. Chapter 13

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**ROOK STREET**

The first thing Francis hears when he awakes the following afternoon is the loud, over-confident laughter of Alfred Jones. He drags himself from bed, moves from the bedroom to the bathroom without glancing toward the source of the laughter. In the mirror, Francis looks less bitter than he actually is. He scowls, to remedy this discrepancy.

Once he’s bathed and dressed, he walks out. Arthur is sitting at the table with his notes, with Alfred standing beside him, one hand on the tabletop and the other on Arthur’s back. They’re talking animatedly about something—Arthur deadpans a quip and Alfred tips his head back to laugh again. The companionship of it, so damnably easy compared to the multi-layered mess between Francis and Arthur, makes Francis feel more glum than angry.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, even though he hears how left-out it makes him sound. _I’m not pitiful,_ he thinks. _I just look and sound pitiful._

Alfred and Arthur both look over at him, their smiles fading to faint curls of amusement. “Oh, nothing, really,” the Englishman replies. “Just talking about working the market this morning. Jones can be quite abrasive with his bump lifts. One of his marks nearly made fast friends with the pavement.”

Francis stares at them. “You worked the market together?”

“Yes, this morning.” Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Non. I was simply unaware it is a two-man job.”

Alfred shrugs. “We had fun and made money. I don’t see any issue there.”

“And brought you breakfast,” adds Arthur, pointing to a paper bag on the counter. “Even though you’re infamously ungrateful.”

Francis nearly chokes on how unfair that is, but he won’t give Arthur the pleasure of getting a rise out of him. _What the hell happened to us?_ The tables have turned since this American got here, and Francis does not like it. He eats his room temperature croissant and says, “We’re going to see Natalya today. She needs to see the plans.”

Arthur’s brow furrows, all serious now. “Why? She never has before.”

“We’ve never stolen the Grand Duke’s crown before.” Francis steps up to Arthur’s other side, peers down at the paper. Arthur’s handwriting is nearly identical to Francis’s. “Walk me through this, if it’s done.”

Alfred does the tiniest glance at Arthur, then away again. Francis almost doesn’t catch it. Why the look? What does Alfred know that Francis doesn’t?

(He knows Arthur is ticklish behind his knees. He knows Arthur has a pair of dimples on the small of his back. He knows Arthur makes the sexiest fucking sounds when Alfred fills him.)

Francis seethes quietly.

Pretending to be oblivious, Arthur discusses the plan. Arthur and Francis will sneak in through the back, lugging with them the blowlamp Gilbert is providing. They’ll sneak past the guards—and, if needed, Arthur will provide a distraction while Francis cuts into the safe. (“I still don’t like that,” remarks Alfred. “What if there are more guards than you can handle?” Arthur shakes his head. “There won’t be more than five on the whole property. Two outside, three in—one on each floor. I’ll try to prevent him from calling out to his comrades. _If_ we get detected in the first place.”) Then they’ll run out with the crown and head to Liber Lighthouse—so called because it leans and bulges much like one would expect a god of wine and fertility to do—where they’ll meet Natalya to deliver the crown.

“She’s making a big production of this,” remarks Arthur. “She’s never been so involved in a job.”

“This isn’t just a crown you’re stealing,” says Alfred suddenly. “Did she say who she’s selling it to?”

Francis shakes his head.

“I wonder . . . I mean, who would want a crown?”

“Jewellers,” replies Francis.

“Monarchy enthusiasts,” suggests Arthur.

Alfred crosses his arms over his chest. “But if people are so upset about Roderich that they riot, what would those people do if they got their hands on his crown? I mean, I don’t claim to understand Europeans, but that’s a symbol, isn’t it?”

Arthur and Francis both go quiet at that. It is a symbol, a very powerful symbol that could be—perhaps won’t be, but certainly could be—like gasoline thrown on a fire. Neither thieves have anything against Roderich Edelstein as a leader, and neither know him as a person. Neither would celebrate him being forced from his throne, or the chaos that would result. Arthur worries for himself if a racist Frenchman got put in charge—and for Gilbert, Antonio, the angels and the vast majority of the Nachtadlers. What if they got deported? It would be quite the round-up, but if people are crazy enough to riot and offer money for a stolen crown, Arthur won’t put it past them.

But it won’t get to that point. Arthur didn’t mention it to Francis, but while they deliver the crown, Alfred will be getting Ludwig and whatever constables can be spared to come ambush them. The Nachtadlers will be supplying cover fire, of course. Natalya likely won’t bring more than Ivan to wait with her, but there will no doubt be Russians surrounding the lighthouse, hidden from sight.

Arthur has never done a job with so many layers, with such potential to be messy. He’s never done a job where he keeps secrets from his friends. _We can’t tell Francis,_ Alfred had said when they were planning how best to intercept the Russians. _I’m not saying he’s on their side over ours, I’m just saying he feels indebted to them. That means he could tell, or be persuaded to tell. Which means he can’t know._ Thanks to Arthur, Antonio and Gilbert know some of the details, but not all. They know where the rendezvous point is. Gilbert because he’s needed, and Antonio because . . . well, as Alfred put it, _he’s got an emotional investment in seeing Natalya’s hands put in cuffs._

Neither Gilbert nor Antonio seem suspicious that Alfred is supposedly a con trying to trick a master fence into getting locked up. Arthur’s not sure how he feels about that, but it’s not an immediate concern.

“Where will you be?” asks Francis, looking up at Alfred. “While all of this is happening?”

“Staying out of the way,” replies Alfred. “Like a good little cannon.”

Francis gives an unfunny smile. “Good.” He checks the clock on the wall. “Tea with Natalya in half an hour, Arthur. I’ll meet you there.”

“Alright.” Arthur seems to look at Francis for the first time. “Are you feeling well?”

“Never better. Au revoir.” Francis closes the door behind him, walks to the end of the hall. Then he creeps back silently, presses his ear to the door.

“. . . jealous,” Arthur is saying. Just one word, and it sets Francis’s insides aflame.

“Sounds like he had his chance and didn’t take it.”

_Shut your mouth. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing._

Muffled sounds. Francis squishes his face against the painted wood.

“. . . with me. Listen, Alfred. I don’t want anyone to be arrested because of me.”

Francis’s breathing stops. He wishes he was unsure of what he heard, but it came through the thin door perfectly clear. It echoes even while the next words come, a ricochet of blame.

“Fines, community service, even forcing them to work with the police would be better. Just not prison. I can’t have it on my conscience. They’re like my . . . well, they are. They’re my family.”

“I wish I could guarantee you their immunity, but I can’t. It’s not my decision to make. But I know since we’re arresting the Russians with the cons’ help, that puts you guys in a better light. The Nachtadlers, especially . . . No, I will. I’ll talk to Roderich and Ludwig about it as soon as I can. I’ll vouch that you’re good people. I promise.”

“How much is a promise worth?”

“A considerable amount. I’m serious, Arthur. You have my word.”

“. . . What if I want more than your word?”

Something murmured, then the sound of lips on lips. Francis recoils from the door as if a fire burns on the other side. _Arrested. Because of me. You guys._ Alfred, discussing the cons as if they’re animals behind the glass of a zoo exhibit. Arthur, throwing around possible punishments as if they mean nothing, as if they are not kisses of death when you work for someone like Natalya Arlovskaya. Unless . . . unless Arthur isn’t planning on working for her anymore. Francis’s stomach drops. _They can’t be stupid enough to try this. They can’t be. Arthur against the Russians? He’ll be eaten alive!_

 _But._ Francis’s mind stops in its tracks. _But that doesn’t matter._

Arthur is working with Alfred, an authority of some sort, behind all their backs. Arthur—his best friend, his forbidden love, his fucking _partner_ —is a traitor.

With this revelation, all of him that was shaped by his time with Arthur is snipped raggedly away. It drops to the floor of the hallway, soaks black blood into the carpet. What’s left inside him amounts only to a few strips of meat, nothing a man could be sustained on. The bits of himself that his father gave him—the lack of self-esteem, the inability to be alone, the sickening fear of abandonment—and Natalya gave him—the restraint, the dedication, the avoidance of love—are all that remain. Loyalty stands on skeletal legs in his heart. _I can trust no one._

No one but Natalya.

He goes to her. He passes through people on the street as if he has become a ghost. He sees nothing but the look on Arthur’s face when he lied to Francis effortlessly about Alfred. _Old friend. Old muckmate from the shore._ Did he feel even a tiny prick of guilt? Had he been planning this? Has he been trying to get in good with Natalya, replace Francis as her favorite? That will never happen. _Never._ Arthur will be punished for this betrayal.

Francis will make sure of it.

 

**KINGS’ CARAVANSARY**

There is a street on the French Shore, in the space where midtown bleeds into downtown, that is lined with nothing but hotels. These are not the grungy hostels or leaky inns of the English Shore. These are grand buildings taller even than the casinos, for the high-rolling tourists and visiting dignitaries and anyone else with more money than they could ever possibly use. The finest and oldest of these hotels sits at the very end of this street, as if waiting for only the top-tier, only those left after the cheap have been filtered out.

“Kings’ _what_?” asks Alfred, on the way down the street. The sky is spitting water in fits, so Arthur is holding an umbrella above their heads, but it keeps dropping down to hit Alfred. “Little higher, maybe?”

“Sorry.” Arthur lifts the umbrella. “The Kings’ Caravansary. I’m not actually sure what that means. Something to do with caravans, I presume. But it’s just pretension, like most things in these parts. The place is run by a pair of con artists.”

Alfred glances at the thief in surprise. He’s heard him say _con_ innumerable times, but never _con artists._ “Why do you call them that?” Before Arthur can reply, the umbrella hits Alfred’s head again, and he says, “Okay, let me hold it.”

Arthur bristles. “It’s not my fault you’re four inches too tall.”

“Five inches.” Alfred takes the umbrella and sneaks a peck to Arthur’s temple. “Perfect specimen.”

The thief ducks away in the limited sheltered space. “None of that here. God knows who could be watching. And don’t glance around.”

“I wasn’t going to,” says Alfred, amused. “Looking around draws attention.”

Arthur mutters something under his breath, then says, “I call them con artists because it’s what they are. One owns it, one manages. The owner is a Chinaman, I’m not sure about his partner. They came here years ago. No one knew them. They pretended they barely spoke English or French, got involved in property bids. People thought they’d clean out a pair of clueless tourists. Next thing they knew, those two were rich—or even richer than they already were—and the new owners of the biggest hotel in the city. They renovated the whole thing. Complete with pretentious new name.”

Alfred frowns slightly. “But are they cons? Criminals?”

“No. They haven’t done anything illegal that I know of.” Arthur glances at him slyly. “Rather brilliant, hm?”

“Slick. Lots of folk like that in this place. Especially you.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Depends what company you’re in.” They’ve come up on the hotel, now, a big grey-bricked box covered in ivy. “Doesn’t look too special,” he remarks. “Am I allowed inside?”

“If you can wait patiently in the lobby, yes.”

Alfred scoffs and teases, “Yes, Mum.”

Arthur stops in the middle of the stairs, the same intensity in his eyes that Alfred heard in his voice when he asked about the dead name. “Do not,” he says, at once soft and sharp, “ever call me that.”

Looking at this face, it’s hard to remember its gentleness as Arthur whispered _I love you_ last night. _Nothing’s perfect,_ Alfred reminds himself. _Including you._

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t even—I never think about it that way. I forget you’re not—” He shakes his head, rephrases. “I only see you as you.”

The anger fades as quick as it came, and Alfred is relieved he can soothe the unusual pain inside Arthur. “Thank you,” says the thief. A little smile flashes; Alfred smiles wide in return.

Then they’re at the top of the steps, Arthur is tipping the doorman, and they’re stepping inside. Alfred is at first too awed to recall the umbrella; Arthur has to nudge him before he folds it up, and even then he cannot tear his eyes from the sights of the lobby.

The ceiling is surprisingly low, for such a grand building, but it does little to detract from the sumptuous, exotic flavor. Plush red carpet cushions the newcomers’ wet shoes, but their steps leave no marks, and Alfred is glad for it; it would be like sullying a field of fresh-fallen snow with footprints. Chandeliers of gold, dripping with diamonds, hang overhead. The walls, a deep indigo, are covered in elaborate oriental designs. Silver-branched cherry blossoms intertwine with ferocious dragons, their scales flowing slashes of gold, their eyes twinkling emeralds, all of it deliciously reflective beneath the warm light of the chandeliers.

Arthur’s lips don’t smile, but his eyes do. “This is where I leave you. Will you suffer?”

Alfred grins absently, completely taken. Arthur heads for the stairs (the staff all know him and who he’s here for) and leaves Alfred to ask the receptionist lots of charmingly boyish questions about the hotel and herself and, most importantly, dragons.

Six flights of stairs later, he comes to the room. Any other time there would be a guard standing outside, but today the guard waits for him inside. Arthur closes the door behind him and stands with his arms out and legs spread. The guard—Arthur knows none of them by name, aside from Ivan—frisks him with a blank face and heavy hands. Arthur clears his throat pointedly. “Are you checking for weapons or tumors?”

The Russian stares at him, uncomprehending.

Arthur shakes his head. “Nevermind. Finished? Good. Thanks for the violation.”

The room is the sort of luxury and swank one can never really get accustomed to. The carpet is swirls of burgundy and gold, the curtains scarlet silk, the cushions gilded, tasseled flowers. It’s all lit with a warm, reddish light—a cozy, sparkling hell.

The suite has several rooms, but the area Arthur stands in now—a living room or sitting area, whatever it should be called in the context of a place like this—is taken up by long, low couches. Francis sits on one, an ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a cigarette between his fingers. He glances over at Arthur, who can only stand awkwardly, because Natalya isn’t here to offer him a seat, and it would be quite the offense to sit without being told. Teacups sit on the coffee table. They’ve had tea without him.

 _She’s making me wait on purpose,_ he knows. Natalya doesn’t want to give the impression that she’s a dog, ready to be summoned at any time. She is, if anything, a cat: haughty, aloof, seeking the subservience of others. Arthur is the dog, really, but his loyalty is not based in earning praise like Francis. Foxes are his people, he decides. Sly chicken-stealers in fancy coats.

At long last, Natalya reveals herself. She wears high-heeled boots, so Arthur hears her before he sees her, the clopping like a horse’s hooves. In an accent as thick as cement and a tone about as yielding, she says, “I tire of you wasting my time.”

Arthur glances at Francis, but his partner’s face is unreadable. “Am I late, Madam? I was told—”

“Nyet.” She fixes her frigid stare on him. It once made Arthur’s skin crawl, but he’s grown used to it, or at least resigned himself to it, because being around Natalya Arlovskaya is not a leisure activity. It is at best an ordeal and at worst an assault. “I tire of you wasting my time with one of your faces while another smiles at police officers.”

Francis looks appropriately scandalized.

For the first time in years, Arthur stammers in shock. “I-I’m sure I don’t know what you mean—”

Natalya snaps her fingers.

In a second, the guard has one arm around Arthur’s neck and the other hand pins his slim wrists behind his back. The pressure on his throat is a warning, a convincing advertisement of the potential force in that muscular arm.

“Do not,” says Natalya, “continue to waste my time.”

Arthur’s thoughts skitter from the almost-chokehold he’s in to an even more frightening concept. Alfred, downstairs. He can defend himself, he’s had training. But against the Russians? Arthur struggles to speak past his fear and the arm. “I-I won’t waste your time. Promise.”

Natalya scoffs. “They call you silver-tongued, don’t they?”

Ivan comes around the corner, a blade in his hand.

“A tongue of silver sounds like something worth more in my possession than yours.”

Before Arthur can even move, Ivan grabs his chin and slips the knife between his lips. Arthur freezes, heart pounding, the blade lying flat on top of his tongue, cold metal that almost burns him. Danger, danger, danger. He cannot move. He needs to bolt.

Francis is sitting up now, eyes wide, astonishment no longer artifice. “Madame, perhaps he can still—”

Everyone watches Natalya hold up a hand. She reaches into her coat, retrieves a cigarette, a ruby-studded holder, and a lighter. She places the cigarette into the near end of the holder, lights the far end of it, returns the lighter to her coat’s inner pocket, takes a calm drag from the near end, and blows a long trail of smoke at Arthur’s face.

There is silence.

Lungs tight, eyes watering, Arthur gives the smallest cough. He barely moves, but he feels a sting, tastes blood. Ivan smiles faintly.

Natalya appraises him, unblinking. “I struggle to calculate if you are worth the trouble you cause me. On the one hand, you have skill. On the other, you are not special.” She flicks her fingers, and Ivan stands down. Arthur nearly goes limp with relief, until the fence says, “Tell me everything this American plans to do to me.”

Hesitation is death. “He’s going to intercept you before you can reach the meet-up point,” he replies, still mostly breathless. “He’s . . . he’s going to overpower you with police officers.”

“You’re lying. He must know that is impossible.”

“He doesn’t. He doesn’t know how big your organization is.” Arthur is almost glad for the threat of the knife; it gives him a reason to be so shaken and scattered while he comes up with cover-ups and half-truths. “I kept him as much in the dark as I could.”

Natalya glances at Francis, whose brow is furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” asks the gentleman thief. “That does not help your case.”

“Because I wanted to keep it as clean as possible. I thought I could just get rid of him, without having to get any of you involved.” This is a lie now, but it was true in the beginning. And Alfred’s theory— _I think you want to do something good for a change_ —was not completely false. _As clean as possible_ was messy from the start.

Francis and Natalya share dubious expressions, but it’s the fence who speaks. “You will be punished for this. But not yet. First, you will do the crown job. The plan remains the same. Let your American bring the police to slaughter. This city needs a new constabulary, anyway.” She leans forward. The rubies in her cigarette holder wink like tiny drops of blood. “But I’m unconvinced you’re loyal to me.”

He takes a deep breath. “I—”

“Oh, don’t. Spare me the flattery and oaths. I’ve heard it all before. You don’t need to prove loyalty, understand. I’ve already secured it. Would you like to know how?”

Arthur can only nod, dread rising. What could she possibly have on him?

Natalya says only one word. A name.

“Peter.”

Arthur’s face goes white.

The world tips sideways.

A smile blesses her lips, bright like spring’s first flower. “Isn’t that interesting? Just like that, you’re nothing. Secrets are indeed powerful.” She takes a drag, blows smoke at him again. “You will do the crown job tonight. You will do every job after that, once you can walk again. If you do everything I tell you to do, Peter will keep both eyes in his head.”

Arthur jerks in the guard’s grasp; caught by surprise, the Russian nearly loses his hold before tightening it harshly. “Don’t,” he forces out, words literally strangled. “Don’t dare touch him.”

“Curious,” says Natalya. She looks mildly impressed. “You seem to care quite a bit, for someone who abandoned the child. Perhaps you only care when harm comes to him if it’s because of you?”

Arthur can’t speak. Rage. Terror. _Take them down? Suicide. This was never supposed to happen._ _This is a nightmare. This is impossible. Peter is a secret. No one knows. Who—_ Peter. He can’t think of anything else. A blade edging closer . . .

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll do it all. I’ll do it. Let me go. Please. Madam. _Please._ ”

Francis looks stricken. Natalya ponders the desperate outpouring of words for an excruciating thirteen seconds before she gestures to the guard. “Let the traitor go.” The guard releases him steps back. “Now, Mr. Kirkland, perhaps you—”

Arthur is already gone, the door swinging behind him.

Natalya scowls at this cowardice, the weakness of emotion, and turns to Francis. “Next time, choose your apprentice with more care.”

The Frenchman nods numbly, drawing from his cigarette even though it’s gone to ash, distracted by the war of his betrayed heart and the thought of that poor boy. _What have I done?_

 

Below, Arthur tears into the lobby. Alfred, unharmed, stares with wide eyes. “Arthur? What’s wrong?”

Arthur doesn’t pause. He runs into the rain, nearly falls down the steps, sprints away. Alfred runs after him. This is not the confident, sly chase of that first morning in the market. This is pure adrenaline, survival, primal. There’s no other explanation for the white-ringed eyes Alfred glimpsed in the lobby, or the pace Arthur sets that Alfred cannot maintain. He calls out, but Arthur doesn’t respond. The thief takes him north, keeping to the French Shore, only drifting west slightly. Into uptown, the residential district, to a street of wide-spaced mid-upper class houses. Arthur goes straight for the warden’s house. He has been here before.

He crashes through the strip of trees and shrubs growing between the properties, only vaguely invested in staying out of sight. Once behind the house, he skids to a halt at the back door. His hands are shaking; he nearly drops his lockpick. In, in, in. _Peter._ He finally gets the door open, closes it, flies quietly up the stairs, and silently opens Peter’s closed door enough to peek inside.

It’s late afternoon, and so it is naptime. Peter lies there in bed, curled up in Mathieu’s arms. The book Mathieu was trying to read has fallen to the floor. Both of them sleep peacefully. Peter’s thumb is in his mouth. He is whole, and beautiful, and safe. Arthur grips the doorknob tight to keep from falling to his knees. _Peter. Safe._ Arthur watches a moment longer, then retreats, leaving the house as he found it. Crisis over, his mind catches up to his body. His ribs are killing him, his feet are burning, and his throat is as dry as the outside of him is wet. And this whole situation is a catastrophe. But Peter is safe.

Arthur closes and locks the back door, and turns—right into Alfred.

“What,” says the American, still panting a little, “the hell are you doing?”

Arthur doesn’t understand the anger in the tone, until he sees this from the agent’s point of view. Meeting with a curious con boss. Running off like a lunatic. Breaking into a house. Crazy con nonsense of some sort.

“It’s not what it looks like,” says Arthur. Somehow, after all that, his voice is completely calm.

“Then what is it?”

Arthur opens his mouth, but he cannot tell him. His brain is overwound, the cogs jammed and sparking as they grind. System overload. Someone told the Russians about Peter. It couldn’t have been Alfred, because he doesn’t know, but . . . what if he does know? What if it was Francis? Antonio? Gilbert, even? One of the angels? How can he know? How can he trust any of them? The rules have been broken. Nothing makes sense anymore.

“What is it?” asks Alfred again, more concerned this time.

“I can’t tell you,” mumbles Arthur.

“What?” Alfred can’t comprehend. “Why not?”

Arthur looks down at the ground. “I . . . I just can’t.”

“We have a deal.” Alfred takes his hand. “We have a deal that you won’t lie to me. No secrets, remember?”

Arthur shakes his head, miserable. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all gone. The job is happening tonight, but . . . The Russians found out about you. They know the plan. Your cover is blown. Francis knows, I don’t know if Antonio and Gilbert know. I don’t know how any of them know, but they do.” He lifts his gaze to Alfred’s, eyes bright with sadness giving way to defeat. “I’m sorry.”

Alfred looks down at the thief. All of this, everything tipped upside-down in minutes. He wants the carefree, happy morning back. He wants the Arthur he could trust back. _Could I ever trust him?_ Perhaps this is some new addition to the plan, perhaps Arthur was scoping out this house in a hurry before the owners got home or something. If Arthur can’t tell him this, what else has he kept from him? Alfred can see the torn look in those green eyes. Arthur wants to trust Alfred, but he’s choosing not to. If he can’t trust Alfred, how can Alfred trust him?

“Well, then.” Alfred keeps his hold on Arthur’s hand and reaches his free hand into a hidden pocket of his jacket. With practised ease, he snaps handcuffs around Arthur’s wrists. “Arthur Kirkland?”

Tears gleam in those big green eyes.

Alfred’s heart rips in half. “You’re under arrest.”

 

**POLICE STATION**

This is the second time Arthur has sat across from Ludwig Beilschmidt at this metal table. This time, he’s even less cooperative than before. He doesn’t say a single word.

“Agent Jones told me everything. I know you work for Natalya Arlovskaya. And I think you can be useful to me. What does she know? How has the plan changed?”

Arthur stares down at the table.

“Look at me.”

Arthur lifts his gaze, unreadable and hard.

Ludwig stares back, unflinching. “Policemen could die. Alfred could die.” He leans forward, thick fingers clasped. “Do you want that? Are you so loyal to Natalya that you would let your friends and innocent people die?”

Arthur’s face does not change. His eyes are no longer bright; his overwound mind’s strings finally snapped on the trip to the station, and he is left in a quasi-depression of no thought, no feeling. He has experienced it a few times in the past, but never to this degree. It shields him from Ludwig’s piercing stare, this deep sludge of not-caring he’s sunken into. He recalls Alfred’s heartbroken face when he whispered goodbye and Arthur ignored him to follow numbly after Ludwig. He almost feels guilty for that, but it can’t make it through the sludge.

Ludwig sees he will get nowhere this way; he’s quite sure he could strike the thief and get only a dead stare in response. (He’s not wrong.) So he sits back and says, “You will not win here. Not if you keep on this path the Russians have paved for you. A thief has two fates: shot, or caught.”

Arthur’s left eyebrow lifts slightly.

“Yes, I know all your little rhymes. I’ve heard them all in this room. Cons always think they’re the smartest person in the room.” His rolled eyes illustrate how accurate he thinks that is. “You have to understand this, Arthur. This has been done before, everything has. Cons win plenty of battles, but justice always wins the war.”

Eyebrow still raised, Arthur curls his lip in the faintest smirk. Combined with his half-lidded eyes, the look is so scornfully smug that Ludwig actually gets a bit riled.

He moves forward again, the edge of the table pressing into his abdomen. His words come low, intense. “This cannot end with you coming out on top. It’s simply impossible. You’re the bad guy. The bad guy does not win at the end of the story. He swings from the gallows.”

“Someone’s been reading ahead.”

Ludwig sits up straight, briefly taken aback by the flat tone. “I don’t need to. This is just the way it works. If cons were allowed to have happy endings, the world would be chaos. Anarchy. Innocent people wouldn’t be safe.” He shakes his head. “You can’t honestly see me as a villain. All I’m doing is protecting people. The people you’re trying to harm.”

“It must be nice—”

“It’s very rewarding.”

“—to see the world in black and white.”

Ludwig narrows his eyes, and Arthur squints at him. They’ve done this before, and Ludwig is tempted to point out the definition of insanity. Instead, he says, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

Arthur’s chains jangle as he slouches down in his chair.

Ludwig ignores it. “My father was a con. He started off in other gangs, but he was leading his own by the time he hit twenty. The Nachtadlers. I’m sure you’re familiar.”

As he’d hoped, a tiny flicker of interest brightens Arthur’s eyes. Ludwig continues, “Everything went well for him, until he spent a night with a prostitute. He liked her. She liked him, for a while. She didn’t want to be in her situation; she was down on her luck. He got her pregnant—by accident, obviously—and she had no idea what to do. She wanted to give up on everything, on life. So my father supported her. He got her a place to stay on the English Shore, payed for whatever she needed. They had two sons, but by the time the second son was born, they had started to fight. She didn’t like that he hurt people for a living. She wanted something better for her children. He wanted them to follow in his footsteps. By then, Gilbert was old enough to choose. He chose our father. I stayed with our mother.”

Arthur is motionless, light slowly but surely returning to his eyes.

“She always wanted us to look out for each other, no matter where our lives took us.” Ludwig reaches beneath the shirt of his uniform, takes out the cross necklace. “She told us to wear these, to remind us that we have to protect each other.” He thumbs the iron pensively. “I’ve never taken it off, but I’m sure Gilbert has. He rarely visited me or our mother.” His voice hardens. “And when she died, he couldn’t even be bothered to come to her funeral. He would rather spend time with murderers and thieves.”

Arthur inclines his head a bit, thoughtful.

Ludwig waits in silence as long as he can bear. “Are you going to tell me anything at all?”

Arthur’s gaze drifts, but doesn’t lose its alertness. “If I did, would you believe it?”

 _Progress._ “I would take it into serious consideration. I realize that you could throw us off, if you wanted to. But I think the offer of a reduced sentence should give incentive to be honest.”

Arthur nods slowly. “The plan is unchanged.”

Ludwig’s brow furrows. “Even the rendezvous point is the same?”

“The plan is unchanged.”

“You make me think you’re lying. You speak like you’re walking on eggshells.”

“The truth is dangerous.” Arthur sits up. “That’s why I avoid it as much as possible.” He offers his cuffed, chained hands. “That’s all.”

Ludwig stares. “You _want_ to go back to prison?”

“The sooner I’m in, the sooner I’m out.”

Ludwig makes a note to alert Mathias Densen and Berwald Oxenstierna that Arthur is a flight risk. He unchains the thief from the table and escorts him down the hall, out through the rain, to his car. They don’t say a word, all the way to the prison. Just before Arthur gets out of the car, when Ludwig is about to tell the guards his warning, Arthur tells him, “Brothers. Forever.”

Ludwig’s eyes widen. He can only wave to the guards and drive away, the words echoing in his mind. When he gets back to the police station, he sits in the parking lot, rain thrumming against the roof and windows of the car. He pulls out of his necklace again, turns the cross over, reads the words engraved in the metal.

_Brüder für immer._

After all these years, the plan is, indeed, unchanged.

 

**MIDTOWN**

At Château Edelstein, Roderich is—for once—in a good mood. He’s just had tea with Lucille, and the issue of legalizing brothels went over surprisingly well. Lucille thought it was an excellent idea, once Roderich worked up the courage to ask about it. _You don’t think it’s . . . bad for women?_ he asked, as if grasping for an excuse for her to say no. Lucille shook her head. _No, of course not. It’s not only women. And anyone working there would be doing it safely, by their own choosing._ The more she talked about it, the more Roderich realized sex work wasn’t really that much different than normal work. He’s actually looking forward to meeting the angels of St. Raphaela’s, when all of this is sorted out.

The _when_ feels strong now. It’s no longer _if._ His anxiety leaves the word alone—and, for once, leaves him alone too.

Until he walks into his bedroom and finds Basch holding a bound stack of envelopes. Signed and sealed.

“What is this?” asks Basch.

Roderich tries to breathe. Breathe, breathe. His bodyguard isn’t angry with him, and even if he is, he can’t do anything about it. It isn’t Basch’s place to punish Roderich. But Roderich cares what Basch thinks, because he cares what everyone thinks, and because he cares about Basch just in general. _What would he do?_ Gilbert asked. _He obviously cares about you._

He will not lie about this anymore. He will not lie by omission.

He will not be ashamed.

“Those are pardons,” he says. “For Gilbert Beilschmidt and his gang, and for Arthur Kirkland.”

Basch stares at him, but with less confusion than Roderich expected. “You wrote pardons . . . for people you want arrested?”

“I want them to stop hurting people. But I don’t want them to be hurt, either.” Roderich takes a deep breath. He could get away with just leaving it there, but he won’t. He’s doing this. “I’m in love with Gilbert. That’s what made me realize they’re not all evil. I won’t keep it a secret any longer. This is . . . this is it.”

Basch stares at him for a long while. As usual, his eyes are too hard to read. Roderich fears he’ll faint, or perhaps sick up the biscuits he had with tea. When Basch finally speaks, though, his voice is incredibly soft: “You have so much to worry about already, and you’ve been wasting time worrying about me?”

Roderich can only stare, amazed at how silly the situation seems now that he’s past the fear.

“Well, I . . .” Roderich gives a trembly exhale, overcome by relief. “I just thought you would be . . . angry, or . . .”

Basch sighs, shaking his head. “If you’d been honest from the start, I wouldn’t have had to worry about _you_ so much, either.”

Roderich takes off his spectacles to wipe a tear away. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time since Roderich’s father passed, Basch wraps his arms around Roderich. He’s taller, so Roderich rests his chin on Basch’s shoulder. Despite this, it still feels safe—not the shelter of branches, but the support of roots.

“If you’re happy,” whispers Basch, “I’m happy, Mein Herr.”

“Just Roderich is fine,” he whispers back. “But thank you, also.”

Basch’s laugh sounds like home.

 

Several streets away, at the home of Berwald Oxenstierna, the front door opens without a knock. Ivan walks in, dripping rainwater on the floor. He sees the mat but doesn’t wipe his shoes. From here, there are two choices: the kitchen or the living room. He chooses the kitchen. There is a vase of pale pink flowers, neat tins of flour, sugar, and salt in descending size, and sloppy finger-paintings stuck to the refrigerator with small magnets. Ivan removes a knife from the wooden block on the counter, tests its weight, pokes its jagged edge. _For cutting bread,_ he thinks. He killed the Bonnefoy father with a bread knife. He’d been about to slice a freshly baked loaf with it. It’s a shame he’s gone, really. He was a good cook.

The quiet clicking of tiny claws makes Ivan turn. A small white dog pads up to him and sniffs curiously at his shoes. Ivan smiles faintly and stoops to pet her soft head. Then he picks her up and sets her gently down in the attached dining room, closing the door between them. The door is full of windows, so she peers through, watching him with perked ears. Ivan is unsure if she is well-trained enough to accept whatever humans do or simply too daft to protest the actions of a stranger. He leaves her there and walks into the living room.

Mathieu is dusting, but when he sees Ivan, he drops the duster in shock.

“Do not scream,” advises Ivan. “Do not fight. I am going to take the boy and leave.”

Mathieu’s wide, rather beautiful eyes gain a protectiveness through their terror. “Don’t touch Peter. Don’t go anywhere near him. Just get out of here, before I call the police.”

His attempt at a hard edge is in vain. Ivan wonders if Berwald gave him lessons on how to scare away criminals. It’s a shame. Most things in Ivan’s life are. He wishes things could be simple, but there will always be gentlemen thieves who disagree with their cut. There will always be people defending their charge. There will always be someone who has to fight.

He remembers, abruptly, Natalya teaching him to kill. The light that came to her eyes as she watched it leave the eyes of another human being. Vicious whispers hissing through her teeth. Bloody fingers wrapping around his blade. Stroking.

Ivan shakes his head. _Shame._ Then he shoves the knife into Mathieu’s lower abdomen. By the look of agonized horror and the sobs as he hits the floor, Ivan can tell he doesn’t appreciate the kindness. There are several places he could have stabbed that would lead to certain death; with this, he will most likely be fine. So long as he yields.

“Do not scream,” he says again. “Lie still. Sleep.”

Mathieu blinks through his tears and pain. He looks at Ivan, then slowly lets his head drop to the floor as blood darkens his shirt. Sweet surrender.

_Wonders never cease._

Ivan goes upstairs. There’s Peter, napping peacefully in his bed. Ivan wakes him up with a gentle nudge. “Come away,” he murmurs. “It’s time to go.”

Peter sits up, rubs his eyes, mind slowed by sleep. “Where?”

“It is a surprise.” Ivan removes the scarf from around his neck—something he dislikes doing thanks to the hideous scars there, but we must all make sacrifices—and wraps it around Peter’s head, blocking his eyes and ears.

“Do you work with Papa?”

“Yes.” Ivan lifts Peter up, carries him downstairs.

“Where’s Nana?”

Ivan steps over Mathieu’s half-conscious body. “He is not coming.”

Shame, that.


	14. Chapter 14

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**L’IVOIRE PRISON**

To Arthur’s immense relief, he is not inspected by Mathias Densen on the cold metal table. A different correctional officer pokes gloved fingers in his mouth, probes between his legs. Arthur bites the insides of his mouth, distracting himself from old pain with new pain. The turnkey doesn’t remark about his female body, just rolls disgusted eyes toward the ceiling. Arthur won’t fight, not directly, not yet. He’s learned his lesson.

“You missed lunch, prig,” says the turnkey, once Arthur has donned the grey uniform. “But we’ll let you out for exercise.”

Arthur doesn’t say a word. He lets his anger stir within him, bubbling as if in a pot. He won’t let it boil over. He will not lose control. He will hold his anger and fear and regret tightly until he can be alone with it.

The turnkey escorts him down the hall between the cells, through two sets of doors, and finally out into the courtyard. _At least it’s not raining,_ thinks Arthur. It’s optimism in self-defense, because there are now three dozen pairs of eyes on him, undressing and unimpressing. All of these men are larger than him: taller or wider or both, all thick tattooed arms and fades riddled with scars, signs of damage. These looks are not new to Arthur. Some of the Nachtadlers look like these men, but none would ever regard Arthur with such blatant, derisive hunger in their eyes.

Arthur wants to square his shoulders, but that will make his breasts push out against his shirt. So he keeps his weak posture as he walks through the cons. He does not look at any of them. He keeps his gaze on the far stone wall. He’ll go over there and lean against the wall. That is his plan.

He knows it’s coming, but it still surprises him when he’s tripped.

Harsh laughter barks out from the cons surrounding him. Arthur looks down at the ground beneath him for a moment, overly aware of his body: the animal pose of all-fours, grass wetting his knees, a tiny pebble grinding into his palm.

Survive. Escape. That is his plan.

Slowly, Arthur sits up. He does not look at anyone. He brushes the grit and grass stems from his palms, then pushes to his feet. He looks between two shoulders, steps forward. They do not part.

“Where you going, pretty boy?” asks one of them, a fellow Shore Brit like the majority of the prisoners. Arthur is the odd one out, really. He’s from the Shore, but he doesn’t look or sound like it. _I_ _don’t belong here._

“What’s the matter, poppet?” asks another con, sneering despite his sweet tone. “Scared of us, are ya?”

“Looks it,” remarks a man behind Arthur. “Shakin’ in his boots, he is.”

Arthur realizes in his desperation to clamp down the tumultuous feelings inside him, he has begun to tremble. _Don’t. Show no fear._ He takes a deep, quiet breath. He’s afraid his voice will shake, but he cannot remain silent any longer. He summons confident energy. _Sell it._

“No need for hostility, gents.” He smiles, holding up his hands. “Any foot could slip out at random to trip someone, that’s a reflex problem you may want to get looked at, but for the intents and purposes of our exceedingly brief friendship, let us say there are no hard feelings.”

They all inch away, taken aback by his proud outflow of words. Right now, their bias has been shocked away. Right now, he has their undivided attention.

Distraction only lasts a moment.

Also, first impressions are important.

“Some of you probably already know my name, but for those who don’t, allow me to introduce myself.” He goes around the circle, forcefully shaking hands and clapping shoulders. “Arthur Kirkland, infamous thief-of-all-trades and gentleman extraordinaire. A pleasure and honor to meet you all.” Does it sound like nonsense? Absolutely. Does it matter, to this crowd? Absolutely not. “Now, I don’t know about you lot, but I intend to be out of this prison by tomorrow morning. I’ve important work to do, you see. Freedom is, ah, paramount.”

They’re slipping a little. One of them says, “Fuck’re you on about?”

“Yer breakin’ out?” asks another.

Arthur holds a finger up to his lips. “Have patience. Oh.” He wags the finger at them. “No blabbing to the guards, hm? If you’re all good lads, I’ll let you out, too.”

That gets a few snorts, as he expected. Someone nudges him so hard from behind he stumbles into the men in front of him. They catch him in rough hands, glare down at him. This is less expected, but not shocking.

“How’re you gonna get us all out?” demands a voice behind him, presumably the pusher.

“Not that I don’t trust you,” says Arthur, righting himself and looking around the circle, “but I don’t trust you. So, you let me worry about the getting out. Think about it this way: I tell you, you get out. I don’t tell you, you still get out. None of you can be of any more help to me than you will naturally, when the time comes. And we really wouldn’t want one of you giving sensitive information to the guards. I’m sure none of us would appreciate a snitch.”

At that, a few cons glare pointedly at another, who shrinks back and nervously touches fresh stitches above his eyebrow. Arthur stifles a smile. It’s always nice when the history of the mark does the conning instead of him. All he has to do is get the cogs in place, and these cons will spin them for him.

“Agreed, then?” Arthur clasps his hands behind his back, passing a sturdy smile around to everyone. “You’ll all stay quiet, and refrain from tearing me to shreds, and this time tomorrow you’ll be free men.”

They all exchange furrowed-brow looks, but Arthur knows he’s got them. They have no leader, and no one protests, so they all agree with him by default. He nods to them all, thanks them for their time, and turns around.

Mathias Densen glares down at him. “We meet again.”

Arthur will not scream. He will not scream. He will not scream.

_Peter’s eyes in a demon skull._

“What are you lot talking about?” asks Densen. “Nothing bad, I’m sure.”

The other cons have backed away, well aware of Densen’s violence. Only Arthur stands close enough to touch, rooted in place. He doesn’t want to look afraid, but he knows he does. _Just talking about how much we love spiky hair._ That’s what he wants to say, but his mouth won’t open. He can barely breathe.

Densen steps forward, looks Arthur up and down. “Did you tell them your little secret?”

Arthur sees them in his peripheral vision, narrowing eyes and muttering. _No. Don’t lose them._ But he can’t speak to them. He can’t look away from the monster in front of him. The cons will be against him. They won’t listen when he needs them to. He’ll be stuck here. Perhaps beaten. Perhaps grabbed where the guards turn a blind eye. Perhaps pinned down. Perhaps—

He will not let Densen have this.

It is his story to tell.

So he tells it.

“My body is female, but I’m a man,” says Arthur. He is shocked but extremely pleased with how steady and low his voice is. “That’s all. I hope you all find that as tantalizing as this turnkey apparently does.”

There’s confusion, that’s clear. Probably some disgust, Arthur is willing to bet, but none is shown. No one says a word, about any of Arthur’s secrets. He knows there’s little cause for it, but he still feels proud.

Densen makes a face. “Get inside,” he orders, sour. “Back to your cages.”

 

Arthur has several things worrying away at his nerves, but he pays them no attention. His first priority must be escape. He needs to get out and do his job. What doing his job will look like is unknown to him—he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it, even though he’d normally despair at leaving it open to improvisation. Right now, he has a plan with many branches. Once he’s out of his cell, there are many different ways things can go. He can only plan so much. Anxiety twists in his belly, flutters in his chest. He can’t eat the gruel a turnkey slides through the feeding slot—mostly because of the nausea but also because it sets the stage for the show he is about to put on.

He’s sitting on his cot, rubbing his cheek, when a guard comes to collect his tray. “What’s this, prig?” asks the guard. “Too fussy to eat your food? The wee prince would like something fancier?”

It’s a very nasal mimicry of Arthur’s posh accent. He’s tempted to respond in his Shore accent—his true accent, really, though it’s been so long since he did it he’s certain it’ll feel strange in his mouth—but he doesn’t want to distract from his feature presentation.

“No,” he says, wincing slightly, perfectly replicating the delicately pained air Francis often uses to get sympathy sex. _(Oh, how the world wounds me. Comfort me between your legs.)_ Arthur rubs slow circles into his jaw. “My tooth hurts.”

The turnkey tilts his head, pouting. “You poor poppet. Shall I call Mummy to kiss it better?”

Arthur doesn’t have to fake his withering look. “A nurse would do.”

“Sure. Call when you have a serious problem.” The turnkey takes the tray and leaves, shouting at two arguing inmates to _Shut yer gobs!_

Arthur lies back on his cot. _Very well._ It’s to be an endurance test. He intends to pass. So he lies there, rubbing his jaw. After half an hour, he starts muttering to himself. After a full hour, he starts to moan. Loudly. Before long, he’s given himself a headache and the other cons are hollering at him, banging on the walls, trying to silence him or drown him out.

“Alright, all of you shut up,” yells Densen. He stomps down the hall, stops in front of Arthur’s cell. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I need to see your nurse,” replies Arthur, sitting up with painful slowness. He squints on the side of the fake ache, his whole body cringing beneath the imaginary burden. He’s actually never had a tooth problem before, but Feliciano and Antonio have, so he puts his performance between their respective helpless wailing and lack of will to live.

Densen arches a scornful eyebrow. “What for?”

“My tooth.” _Obviously._

Densen steps closer to the bars. “What tooth? Get over here.”

Arthur steels himself. _Do not give him power. He is weak. He is afraid. Not you._ His skin crawls when Densen reaches for his face, but he jerks back as soon as a finger brushes his gums. “Ow! Bloody hell!”

Densen scowls, but unlocks the cell with the jangling keys on his belt. “Hands.” Arthur doesn’t understand, so Densen grabs his wrists harshly and holds them out so he can cuff them. The cruel strength of his hands and the memories it brings meld with the memory of the last time he was handcuffed. _NO._ Alfred and Densen cannot be together in his mind. They must be separate, at all times, kept as far apart as possible. _Don’t cry. Do not cry._

Densen is watching him. Arthur tries to meet his gaze, but looks away at the last second.

The halls are the closest thing to a dungeon Belfaux has to offer. The walls are old, old stone. The only light comes from lanterns; it’s a wonder the prison staff don’t all need spectacles. _Perhaps it’s for emergencies,_ thinks Arthur. _It’s harder to kill people when you can’t see them._ As he walks beside Densen, he glances into the other cells. Some men are lying on their cots, but most are active, exercising or scratching graffiti onto their walls or pacing. No women to be seen. Some are Arthur’s height, but two of his biceps could fit inside one of theirs. He hopes he’ll keep their interest in him positive for the duration of his stay.

It’s not like he hasn’t taken a beating before. There was the one from Densen, of course, but he’s had other altercations in the past. Scuffles between him and the other Shore urchins, many of them orphans scraping by like he was. A black eye from Elizabeta when he made the mistake of letting her teach him to fight. Francis was miffed, watching Abel tilt Arthur’s face to inspect the swelling. _We have deals to make. No one is going to believe you’re a gentleman if you’re bruised like a thug._ Abel’s prognosis was some ice wrapped in a cloth. Elizabeta apologized, sort of: _I’m sorry, but you were really supposed to block it. I warned you before I swung._ Gilbert found the whole situation hilarious. _I like the delinquent look on you, Kirkland._ Antonio gave him a sympathetic smile, but Abel’s words were the kindest: _Not everyone is cut out for violence. That’s not a bad thing._

Densen nudges him, jolting Arthur from the memory. They’re in front of a door labelled MEDICAL WARD. Inside, it’s a long, low room with five beds and two examination tables. The nurse is stocking one of the shelves in the medicine cabinet, but he turns when he hears Densen’s keys jangle. His eyes, a lovely pale azure, are reddened. His face is one Arthur can tell is usually quick to smile, but right now it looks about to crumple into tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, in a fragile voice.

To Arthur’s surprise, Densen actually sounds almost kind. “Sore tooth.”

Tino abandons the cabinet, slips on some gloves, and pats one of the tables. “Sit down, please, and I’ll have a look.”

Arthur sits obediently. He has no wish to disrespect Tino; being so close to this man who is so important to him without knowing feels peculiar. He wishes he could give thanks, but now is not the time.

Densen stands nearby, arms crossed over his chest, while Tino gently touches Arthur’s jaw. “This side?” he asks. Arthur is heartened, painfully so, by the nurse’s dedication to his work despite whatever is bothering him. Maternal and compassionate, just as Abel assured him years ago. (Arthur never sought a direct answer to the question of how Abel knew Tino so well, but the scars he once glimpsed on Abel’s back and the second-in-command’s interest in healing paints a telling picture. A young con with the initials of an enemy gang carved into his back, confined to the medical ward and observing the nurse with friendly interest. A fortunate happenstance, in the end; Abel has healed many things over the years, Arthur included.)

“You look sad,” murmurs Arthur. His concern isn’t faked.

Tino’s face falls, just a little, before he snatches it back to almost-normal. “I am sad. My son w-was kidnapped. It happened only hours ago. W-We wouldn’t even have known if we hadn’t gone home for lunch today.” His voice is trembling too much to go on; he takes a moment to gather his composure. Densen steps over to touch his arm, brow lowered in frustrated grief.

Arthur cannot ignore the other worries now. Priorities screech to a halt. _Kidnapped. How is that possible?_ Natalya said Peter would be safe if he did the job— _But I’m in prison. She thinks I won’t do it. I was just there!_ He is blown away by her ruthlessness. The boy was napping when Arthur checked on him; perhaps only fifteen minutes later, he was being stolen away by Russians. _She must know I’m locked up. Unless this was her plan all along._ Trying to figure out her original intentions and the reasoning behind them will make him go mad. He just needs to keep his thoughts together. What if she hurts Alfred? What if? _What ifs_ will do his head in, too, before long.

 _Get out,_ he thinks, as firmly as he can. _Get out, and put her away. Then you won’t have to worry about her ever again._

“I j-just wish there was something I could do,” Tino is whimpering. “There was no ransom note, n-nothing. I don’t even know w-why they did it.”

Arthur lifts his head. “I do.”

Tino and Densen stare at him.

_Oh, shite, why did I say that?_

“You do?” asks Tino, voice breaking under the burden of hope it holds.

“Don’t believe it,” warns Densen. “This one’s a snake.”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Arthur finds himself saying. It makes him cringe, but at the same time he feels he owes honesty to this kind, innocent man. “I’m . . . I’m going to get him back.”

Densen’s gaze is icy with hatred, but it’s Tino’s conflicted, teary face that stabs Arthur’s soul. “You will?” whispers the nurse. “How?”

“Enough.” Densen grabs the back of Arthur’s collar. “Not another word, prig. Check his mouth, Tino.”

The nurse sniffles and lifts his hands, parts Arthur’s lips. His search is, of course, in vain. He fetches a small metal hook to poke in Arthur’s molars, then steps back, bewildered. “I can’t find anything wrong with your teeth.”

Densen’s grip tightens. “That’s it.” He hauls Arthur off the table, hauls him out of the medical ward. Cons shout at them, laughing and mocking Arthur. _Densen caught a fish! Watch him flop!_ The turnkey tosses Arthur into his cell—he lands with less of a flop and more of a bone-jarring thud—and slams the door closed. “No supper,” he snarls. “Waste my time again, no food for a week.”

Arthur hopes Densen doesn’t have the authority to do that, but it doesn’t matter. He won’t be here past tonight. What was it Francis said? _Margin for error makes cons sloppy._ Well, Arthur has no margin. This works, or it doesn’t. He summons courage, strength, endurance. He pictures the men burning in the foundry, the carriage horses in the rain, beasts toiling through a life that slowly defeats them. Defeat will come, but not today.

Arthur gets to his feet, turns to face Densen. “You seem rather fond of the nice nurse. Does he know you’re a rapist?”

At that word, the nearest cons go quiet, listening in.

The turnkey’s eyes snap, electric blue. “Shut your mouth.”

Arthur steps closer. “So that’s a no, then. Don’t you think you should tell him? Or Berwald, perhaps? Our warden might share that information with Chief Ludwig. That’s the sort of thing he’d find interesting.”

Densen’s hands fist at his sides. “I don’t know what you think you’re fucking doing, but it won’t work. So shut your filthy mouth.”

“Why?” Arthur takes another small step forward, voice dipping low, intimate. “Are we getting excited? Do we like the idea of joining our favorite thief in a cage?” He tilts his head. “Ah, I suppose not. It’s only the guards who are allowed to rape people.”

Too fast to track, Densen lunges forward, grabs the front of Arthur’s shirt, and yanks him up against the bars. Their bodies press together with only iron and loathing betwixt. “As if you care,” sneers Densen. “As if anyone else would bed a gelding. I wouldn’t be so fussy, if I were you.”

Arthur’s body considers terror. Then his brain reminds it: _My son was kidnapped._

Arthur spits in Densen’s face.

Every con falls silent.

Densen is too furious to even speak. Everything has been said, anyway. Everything except: _I am going to kill you._ He releases Arthur, unlocks the cell again, and steps inside—

—only to be stopped in his tracks. He looks down. His handcuffs. One cuff is locked around a belt loop on his trousers. The other is locked around a bar.

Arthur smirks, holding up the key. “It’s nice when things go according to plan. You’re not very observant, you should really work on that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He sprints for the medical ward, ignoring the shouts of the cons to free them. _All in due time, gents._ (He knows it could be done now, and he is tempted, but he wants to have a fighting chance.) Tino looks horrified when Arthur bursts in. “I’m not going to hurt you, Tino,” he says, hoping he sounds genuine. “I think it would be best if you paid Berwald a visit.”

Densen is shouting for reinforcements out there. Tino doesn’t mince words; he bolts. Arthur gives him an apologetic thought, then begins tearing drawers out. Medical supplies go flying. He knows where what he needs is, but it can’t look like that.

Soon, but not too soon, boots pound toward the door. Arthur spins around, holding a scalpel in a shaking hand. “Stay back!”

The turnkey, with two others behind him, is not afraid of this display. He doesn’t even hesitate. Even as Arthur cries, “Get away from me!” and swipes, Densen just comes forward with the surety of a wolf against a fox. He effortlessly knocks the blade to the cluttered floor and backhands Arthur so hard the thief sees black stars. Then Densen raises his baton.

He was serious when he pledged death for the thief.

It’s the other correctional officers, standing by in silence interrupted only by the sound of muscle and bone brutalized by the baton, who finally end the abuse. _The Ox_   _will be after you,_ they say. _You’d better take a break._

If Densen loses this job, he’ll have nothing left. So he stops.

He grasps Arthur’s right ankle and drags him, limp and gasping, back to his cell. The other cons cannot make sense of it; they are so befuddled they’re not even outraged. Why would he not free himself? It would be difficult to get past the guards outside, but not impossible. A hostage and some careful maneuvering is all it would take. What the hell is he doing?

On the grubby floor of his cell, Arthur slowly shifts his weight to his elbows, breath shallow because all of his ribs are now bruised. At least none are fractured, by the feel of it. His left eye will be black tomorrow, if he’s still alive by then. His back, which bore the brunt of the beating, is absolutely murdering him with each agonized throb of muscle. But he got what he wanted. He reaches trembling hands downward, removes his prizes from where they’re tucked into his shoes. His eyes can barely focus on the thin curves of metal. A curette and a probe, not that he knows what they’re called. To him, they are this: a make-do tension wrench and hook pick.

 _Now then,_ he thinks, adrenaline carrying him up, through and over the pain. _Let’s start a riot._

 

A waiting game. The turnkeys patrol, but not as regularly as they should, especially not as night falls. Arthur’s heart is in his mouth, but he keeps his teeth clamped around it. _I am in control._ The pain should exhaust him, but instead it fuels him. _Focus._

Peter is in danger.

Fate shuffles its feet, gaze averted. It knows better than to fuck with him right now.

It takes some negotiation with the bars of his cell and his wrists to pick the lock. He’s never picked a lock from behind before, barely able to see what he’s doing in the poor light, nor has he ever used such inadequate tools. Still, Fate knows better, and his skill proves abundantly present. It takes three times longer than normal, and he has to stop when a guard stomps by, but at last, the click of sweet release. Carefully, he swings the door open. The hinges creak, but not loudly enough to alert anyone.

He steps into the middle of the hall. The cons notice immediately, but Arthur waves his arms wildly before anyone can shout. He glares at the nearest ones, to give them a faint idea of the righteous anger roaring inside him. _I trusted him. I worked for her._ Betrayal, so bitter he could gag.

Arthur holds his finger to his lips, turning so everyone can see him. He has their full attention. He holds their freedom in his hands. If they want this to be a success, all they must do—for now—is keep their damned mouths shut.

Each lock takes less time than the last. He’s perfected his technique by the time he has half the prisoners freed. His anxiety eases. Now, they just need—

“Hey!”

_Ah. Right on time._

A turnkey, the one who released Arthur the first time he was locked up, stands at the far end of the hall. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “How did you—”

Arthur taps the tallest con lightly on the arm. “Would you mind fetching his keys for me?”

And with that, they’ve got a riot on their hands. The turnkey grabs his pistol, but he has no time to aim. The cons engulf him, kicking and punching and stabbing with shivs they’ve been waiting to use for months. Arthur doesn’t watch it; he catches the ring of keys tossed to him and unlocks the remaining cells. The cons barrel out like animals, attacking the guards that come running and fighting amongst themselves until another kicks them into line. They’re a mess, but they’re serving their purpose. Arthur slips away from the war, into the room beside RECEPTION, where his belongings are kept. He gets back into his clothes quickly—it’s a shame he has no bandage to bind with, but his ribs are so sore he knows there’s no point checking the medical wing.

That thought gives him pause. Are Tino and Berwald safe? He goes to the medical ward, but it’s empty, untouched since he trashed it. Perhaps they’ve gone home? The warden’s office, when he finds it, is empty too. They must be home. _Thank God._ He turns to go, then pauses. The shouts and screams and gunshots of the riot fade away. Arthur steps numbly over to the desk, picks up a small framed photograph. There is stoic Berwald with a tiny smile on his lips, his arms around Tino, and Tino’s arms in turn around Peter. All three faces are full of love for each other; Arthur has never seen such wholesome, uncomplicated happiness.

_I’m going to get him back._

Arthur places the picture beneath papers in a drawer, where it will be safe, unnoticed. Then he hurries into the hell of the riot. At least five guards lie limp, either dead or unconscious. Five more are still grappling, but they fight losing battles. One seems to have drawn a crowd. Arthur doesn’t bother guessing. He shoulders through the audience to see for himself.

Mathias Densen is on his knees, held by the hair, both arms hanging so blatantly limp Arthur knows they’ve been broken. His face is a mask of blood, gushing from his nose, his mouth, cuts on his temples. The cons could have killed the guards swiftly, but this is what they prefer. They want these men to suffer. Arthur considers his own body, the pain Densen has placed in it without caring. An eye for an eye.

One of the cons notices Arthur and elbows the one holding a shank. “Give it to him,” he says, nodding to Arthur. “He let us out.”

“Yeah,” agrees another, whose remaining teeth have been knocked out. “Give it.”

The crowd all nod their assent. Arthur is presented with a shiv made from what seems to be a piece of mirror bound to a toothbrush. Its edge is wicked, but that’s not what he looks at. His eye reflects in the sliver of looking-glass, green and hard and just as cold as Natalya’s, Ivan’s. Densen’s.

_An eye for an eye, indeed._

He lifts his gaze. Densen’s head is yanked upward, baring his throat. The turnkey can barely open his eyes, let alone focus, but Arthur knows he sees him, because regret shines unmistakable in those pale irises.

Arthur shakes his head, passing back the shiv. “No. Thanks but no thanks, gents. I won’t have his blood on my hands.”

Densen closes his eyes. Arthur might be mistaken, but he’s pretty sure he hears him sigh.

Arthur’s work here is done. He doesn’t say another word, just leaves the cons to do what they will, leaves the prison to be torn asunder, leaves the statue to be hideously defaced, leaves Mathias to join Lukas at last.

His body hurts worse than it has in years, perhaps ever, but it hasn’t caught up to him yet. Through pouring rain and roaring pain, he runs for the Royal Bank.

 

**WEST WHARF**

It’s a downpour.

Raindrops always seem more aggressive at night, though they’re virtually unchanged from the diurnal versions of themselves. Perhaps it’s the lack of visibility, that could be it. Not that it matters. Alfred’s head is such a mess, he barely notices the water drenching him.

It’s not yet full dark—the job isn’t underway. He wishes he could have spoken to Arthur about it. _No._ He wishes he could have trusted what Arthur said. Ludwig—who, for the record, feels he should have been alerted that an undercover agent had been brought into his city—claimed Arthur said the plan was unchanged. But he also said Natalya knew about Alfred. _There’s something she doesn’t know, then,_ he thinks as he walks through the rain. _The Nachtadlers, maybe? She probably thinks they’re still on her side. That’s a good advantage. And she probably thinks I don’t know my cover is blown._ He won’t put too much weight on the latter, but every little advantage helps.

But one thought still nags. Two, actually. Who told Natalya about him? Only Roderich, his bodyguard, and Arthur know his secret. (And the police, but they aren’t exactly on speaking terms with Natalya.) Did Arthur give up the information himself? Alfred doesn’t want to believe that. But what was all that with the warden house? Why was he there, and why couldn’t he tell Alfred? That part makes no sense.

 _It could’ve been Francis,_ he thinks. He prefers this theory. _He could have overheard something. We were careful, but maybe not careful enough?_

He’s wary, at first, expecting Russians to jump him at any time. But he quickly abandons that paranoia. Natalya isn’t the type to kill someone so important in such an anticlimactic way. She’ll want him to bleed, and she’ll want to watch, if not do some cutting herself.

Alfred goes to the flat, but Francis isn’t there, and of course neither is Arthur. He pictures the dead-eyed defeat on the thief’s face, back at the police station. _At least Arthur’s safe there,_ he thinks. _At least I can worry about him after all this is over._

Alfred doesn’t know what to do with himself without Arthur to orient him, so he heads for the warehouse. A car turns down the street, and he marvels at the great curtains of droplets revealed by the headlights. The world seems both sharper and softer through the falling water. He doesn’t even think about the gate at the warehouse, because it’s open. By the time he realizes that’s not the usual stare of things, he’s crashing to the ground after being struck across the shoulder blades. Flashlight beams swipe over wet pavement. Alfred pushes to his hands and knees, but freezes. He’s never had a gun held to his head before. He looks up.

Abel and Gilbert glare down at him. “You got a lot of nerve, Yank,” says the Prussian. “I think you better tell us why you were seen taking Arthur into the police station. Make it quick, if you want to keep both kneecaps.”

 _So it wasn’t Gilbert who told Natalya._ “Alright. I’m an undercover agent—”

“I know that,” snaps Gilbert. “Roderich brought you in. Skip that part.”

Alfred stares, water dripping down his face. “How do you know? When did you—”

Gilbert snorts. “I knew all along. I ain’t just a pretty face.”

Abel glances at him, but says nothing.

Alfred looks between them, eyes wide. “Did you tell the Russians?”

“No,” replies Gilbert, “Francis did that. But at least he didn’t _arrest_ anyone.”

Alfred stands up, beyond frustration. Gilbert and Abel step back, guns still pointed at him, but he ignores the weapons. “I only arrested him because he went against our deal. This is such a high-risk operation, I can’t afford to have anyone keeping secrets. He went to the warden’s house, after speaking to the Russians. He broke in and everything, but wouldn’t tell me why. What was I supposed to think? This is _not_ the time for screwin’ with trust.”

Gilbert and Abel’s faces have gone pale with concern. “He went straight there?” demands Gilbert. “From the hotel?”

“He _ran_ there. I thought he was casing the house or something, I don’t know—”

“You’re right. You don’t know,” growls Gilbert, fresh anger rising. He turns to Abel. “Go inside. Tell them Bonnefoy can’t be trusted.”

Abel nods, gives Alfred one last glare, and hurries into the warehouse.

Gilbert faces Alfred again. “He wasn’t _casing the house,_ you dumb son of a bitch. He was looking for Peter. Francis told the Russians, I can’t believe—if they touch that boy, so help me—”

Alfred breaks in before Gilbert can interrupt himself again. “What boy? Why can’t Francis be trusted? _Who is Peter?_ ”

Gilbert stops his furious pacing to stare at Alfred. Slow and firm, the words leave his mouth for the first time since swearing secrecy four years ago. “Peter,” he says, “is Arthur’s son.”


	15. Chapter 15

**_1 9 2 3_ **

 

The feather.

Arthur felt it between his thighs, and the thought of it stuck inside, tearing loose the egg, harming not his child but what could one day be—he couldn’t take it. He jerked away from it, as much as he could with his ankles bound. The Vargas brothers let go of his hands, matching horror on their faces, as Arthur cried, “Don’t! Please. I changed my mind. Don’t do it.”

Laura’s green eyes were bright with sympathy—empathy, in truth, for she had been in this scenario more than once herself. “Are you sure? This is hard, but it might be harder otherwise.”

Arthur took one look at the sharp tip of the feather and shook his head vehemently. “I’m sure.” His legs pulled against the restraints, trying to close his thighs, to cover himself.

Lovino and Feliciano left, to give him privacy, while Laura untied him and handed him his briefs and trousers. Arthur tugged them on without looking at her. It was an impressive transformation: Laura watched the female body vanish, hidden beneath the guise of the gentleman. Arthur buttoned his waistcoat, smoothed everything down, and took a deep, steadying breath.

Laura gave him a comforting smile. “You’re stronger than most people think. Including yourself.”

Arthur’s gaze flashed to her, then quickly away. He snatched a tear from the corner of his eye, nodded to her without looking at her. “Thank you. For trying.” A pause, and his voice thinned to a whisper. “And caring.”

Laura gave his cheek a kiss. In the hall, Lovino gave his shoulder a squeeze. And Feliciano gave him a hug that he struggled to return.

“It’ll be okay,” the younger Italian promised. “We’ll help you, Arthur.”

He was unused to such kindness and struggled to maintain his composure. He managed to choke out a _thank you_ before fleeing the scene.

 

And it was fleeing he was doing eight months later: fleeing the incredibly supportive angels, fleeing Antonio’s goofy kindness, fleeing the protective Nachtadlers, fleeing Gilbert’s loyalty, fleeing Francis’s eyes.

Those damned beautiful eyes that held such pain when they found the great swell of Arthur’s belly—not because he was burdened by Arthur’s mistake, as the Englishman thought, but because he could only imagine a different life where the pair of them could have a family together, untainted by their damaged realities. Francis could hardly bare to look at Arthur. Arthur could hardly bare to be looked at.

He hated it. He hated this body he was trapped in, and every disgusting symptom of this illness called pregnancy. He felt fat, stretched to bursting, weak physically and emotionally, weeping over nothing at all. He had gone so long without hating himself so intensely, he’d forgotten what it felt like.

He couldn’t hate the baby, no matter how much he tried. He hated everything about it, especially where it came from, but none of those things were the fetus’s fault. The stranger inside him was, for now, innocent. He owed it respect for that, and what maternal instincts he possessed gave it a certain kind of love.

His friends had been invaluable through the pregnancy. They helped him buy clothing to fit his growing womb (Feliciano and Lovino), massaged his shoulders when he ached which was always (Gilbert), and kept a steady supply of chocolate and pastry to satisfy inevitable cravings (Antonio). Abel, of course, gave regular check-ups with his admittedly limited knowledge of pregnancy. Elizabeta surprised them all by knitting two pairs of tiny socks, one pink and one blue. _So we’re covered either way,_ she said. Wordlessly, Arthur unmated the socks and paired them up again, both pink-and-blue. Elizabeta blinked, then smiled sheepishly. _That works, too._

And Francis? Francis worked, and worried. Without Arthur to fence and steal with him, he had to work twice as hard to keep Natalya unsuspicious about a sudden drop in profit. He worried more than anything else. What was going to happen? Would Arthur leave him, disappear with the child? Would the Russians find it? Francis despised keeping the secret from them. It made him guilty, paranoid, needlessly jumpy. Perhaps what troubled him the most was the question he did not allow himself to answer: if he had to choose between Natalya and Arthur, who would he pick?

Arthur hated it. He hated all the fuss, all the attention it gave him. (He didn’t normally hate attention from loved ones, but he did when it was for a curse like this.) He hated that he was a burden, a problem for them all to pitch together and fix. They all claimed they didn’t mind. He knew what their mindset was. He’d overheard Laura saying it to Eva: _He’s been through so much already. At least we can help him with this._

He didn’t want the help.

No. He didn’t want to _need_ the help.

So when the time came, when the contractions began, Arthur knew he would go away. His friends—his family—had done enough for him already. He wouldn’t put them through this, the purge of his bulging, loathed womb. Too much noise, too much mess. Animals went away to give birth, so as not to inconvenience their brethren. Arthur would do the same.

He couldn’t go east; there were no hiding places on the French Shore. He couldn’t go south, because he’d have to pass the wharf, and he’d definitely be spotted round there. So he waddled north. He knew early labor could take ages, so he had plenty of time to find an appropriate spot. He walked along the true shore awhile, kicking pebbles on the stone beach, grimacing at the foggy sea when he felt his body _shifting._ It didn’t exactly hurt, not yet, but he knew his uterus and pelvis were finishing up their plot to kill him. They would put it into motion shortly. Time to find a nest.

He recognized some of the people here, but he didn’t greet them, just kept his head down and a hand tight around his belly. He was after an abandoned building, not one with addled elderly or strained housewives. (It did occur to him that most of them would know the details of a home birth, but asking a stranger for help with this was worse than asking friends.) _Anywhere,_ he thought as he staggered along, growing desperate now. _A shack would do._

The thought rebounded. _A shack._

He knew where to find a shack.

He’d thought the place might be overrun with rats or squatters, but it was just as he’d left it, albeit with more dust on everything. It gave him a brief, startling hope. Perhaps his father had looked in on it? Perhaps the Kirkland man was still around? But it was doubtful, and useless to him besides. He didn’t have a father. Arthur Kirkland existed separate from all that. He was his own man.

About to have his own baby.

He laid out the least dusty blanket on the biggest section of bare floor, then took off his trousers. _Shirt, too, I guess._ He’d have to feed the baby, right? Off with his oversized coat and shirt, both donated from a broad-shouldered gangster. _What if someone sees me through the window?_ That thought was obliterated by a contraction that took him in both hands and ripped his body asunder.

He had no way of measuring time. It was gloomy when it began and gloomy when it ended. He quickly lost count of his contractions, forgot entirely the breathing rhythm Abel had told him about. He clenched his teeth together until he thought they’d shatter, choke him like chicken bones. He thought back to the feather, the fear. He sometimes wondered if that would have been worse.

He was aware, distantly, of something moving past the window. Then he was wailing through another contraction and he almost didn’t hear Gilbert say, “Well, what the fuck, Kirkland?”

Trembling, Arthur watched Gilbert kneel between his legs, gently touching his thighs to steady them. “You’re just about ready, by the looks of it. What the hell are you doing out here by yourself? Everybody’s looking for you.”

 _Not Francis._ Arthur forced out, “Didn’t want to . . . be a burden.”

Gilbert shook his head. “You are the smartest Dummkopf in Belfaux.” He brushed Arthur’s tears away with his sleeve, then fetched what he could find for clean cloths and blankets. “I guess I won’t be washing my hands, seeing as you picked a birthplace with no running water.”

Eventually, Arthur would tell Gilbert what this place meant to him, why it felt both backward and forward to be having his baby here. But for now, he just writhed and screamed and—

“Push,” Gilbert reminded him, kneeling at his side and offering a hand. Arthur squeezed the living hell out of it as he bore down on the intense feeling. “Good thing I’m the one here, huh? Toni couldn’t do this.” Because of his hands, and because he was pretty much useless with blood. To be fair, Francis wasn’t the best with it, either, nor would he appreciate his deft thief fingers being crushed. Gilbert preferred to be a man who didn’t rely on tiny appendages to make a living. All he needed was a brain and a heart. He’d work the rest out one way or another.

“Push again, a big one this time!” Gilbert’s other hand was at the ready to help guide the baby out.

Arthur was completely red with exertion, including the whites of his eyes; his body was apparently having trouble handling the stress of this activity it had so readily volunteered for. _I hate you,_ he thought at his body. _I hate you. I hate you! I HATE YOU!_

And, just like that, release.

Gilbert pried his hand free and hurried to clear the baby’s nose, rubbing its wee body clean until it squealed. Gilbert grinned, and through his utter exhaustion, Arthur gave the weakest smile.

“A little son.” Gilbert wrapped the baby up and placed him in Arthur’s arms. Then he lifted Arthur’s head to put a pillow underneath, then covered him over with a blanket and did away with most of the bloodied things.

Arthur couldn’t comprehend the newness of the wee creature lying on his chest. A tiny nose, tiny lips, tiny soft cheeks. Tiny fingers. Tiny toes, like little pink peas.

He hadn’t thought a demon’s spawn could turn out to be an angel.

Gilbert was smiling at them, the softest fondness. Raspily, Arthur said, “Thank you.”

The gang leader just shook his head a little. _Idiot._

The baby was mouthing against his breast like a fish. Arthur lowered him down, bit back a curse word as his son _clamped_ down on the tender nipple. Arthur cleared his throat. “You seem like you’ve done this before. Not to pry.”

As if it was still necessary to worry about privacy after Gilbert had just gotten to know Arthur’s nethers.

Gilbert chuckled. “Ja. Who do you think pulled Ludwig out?”

At that moment, Arthur found himself wishing he’d known Gilbert long before this, when he was young, when he needed this paternal and avuncular presence in his life.

“Will you name him?” asked the gangster, voice gentle.

Arthur looked down at his baby, this tiny drop of purity that had ravaged his sinner’s soul case. He couldn’t keep him. That was the upshot. He couldn’t keep him before, he couldn’t keep him now. This was his flesh and blood, but it could not be his son.

And yet.

Arthur held the baby closer. “We’ll wait and see.”

 

Arthur didn’t go back to the flat. The stairs were unreasonable, and besides, the church was closer, had more space, and there were plenty of people to hold the baby when his arms grew weary.

No one was as close to the baby as Gilbert. He was at St. Raphaela’s once or twice a day, often just so he could smile down at the baby for a while. He held him the most, even more than Feliciano, who adored anything bambino-related. Antonio adored him without ever touching him, but then again Antonio’s hand-to-human contact tended to restrict itself to Lovino, especially in those days. Arthur wasn’t offended, in any case. He was too busy waiting for Francis to show.

For the entire first week, there was no sign of the gentleman thief. Neither Gilbert nor Antonio would mention him; when Arthur asked, they claimed they didn’t know. It was Abel who gave him a straight answer. _He’s been working himself too hard. When you ran off, it worried him deeply. I think he needs some time to rest, just like you._

Arthur had scoffed. _Our troubles are hardly comparable._

But Abel just hummed thoughtfully. _Perhaps they are. We’re all different. Francis puts on a strong face when he gets up in the morning. Same as Gilbert. Same as you. Don’t be too hard on him when the mask falls off._ Then he’d tickled the baby’s toes and taken his leave.

Arthur was nursing the baby and chatting with the Vargas brothers when the Frenchman finally turned up. None of them noticed at first. “He’s so sweet,” Feliciano was cooing. “Were you this cute once, Arthur?”

“Nope,” replied the thief, deadpan. “I was born as ugly as I am now.”

Lovino snorted, nearly choking on his tea, then went still. Feliciano and Arthur followed his gaze.

Francis stood in the doorway, shirt wrinkled and untucked, stubble thicker than usual, wide eyes fixated on the baby in Arthur’s arms.

“Oh,” said Arthur, abruptly numb. “Francis.”

“Arthur,” he replied, voice a bit unsure of itself for the first time Arthur could remember.

“We’ll leave you to it,” said Lovino, hauling his curious brother out of the room and closing the door behind Francis.

The Frenchman sat down beside Arthur slowly. The beds here were not squeaky like theirs, in the flat, but sumptuous and comfortable. The room was silent as he gazed at the baby, emotions storming in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” he eventually whispered, looking up at Arthur. “Like you.”

Arthur had a split second of aching, ridiculous hope. Perhaps the child could bring them together. Perhaps they had a future of home-cooked meals and family photos with their baby dressed up in a sailor outfit. Arthur shoved the ridiculous notion away. The baby was a problem, not a solution.

“He is,” agreed Arthur, tone guarded. “He deserves to be somewhere better.”

Francis nodded, face falling. “Gilbert told me he had a place in mind. But the baby should be weaned, of course.”

Arthur’s curiosity couldn’t begin to compete with his dread. He didn’t ask, just echoed, “Of course.”

Francis gently took Arthur’s hand, twining their fingers. “I’m sorry.”

Translation: _I’m sorry._

Arthur said nothing.

Translation: _You should be._

 

Six months. That was how long Arthur gave himself with the baby. He didn’t dare risk keeping him a full year. The Russians could have eyes anywhere, and if they found out—who knew what they would do? Perhaps they would be fine with it, so long as he still made them money. Or perhaps they would take him and use visits as payment for thieving, rather than the money. There was no way of knowing how evil they were until they were pushed into showing it. The thought made Arthur sick.

When Gilbert suggested the prison warden, Arthur thought the Prussian had finally lost his mind. Arthur knew nothing about Berwald Oxenstierna nor about his partner, Tino. Gilbert, however, knew quite a bit. Gilbert was not secretive about his time spent in prison. He hadn’t been behind bars in years—by the time his brother was Chief, Gilbert was experienced enough to keep a firm grasp on freedom—but he was fairly certain Berwald’s stoic but kind-hearted character had not been profoundly altered since then. The warden had expressed disapproval of Gilbert for creating mini-gangs, hostile factions, among the prisoners. _Leadership like yours shouldn’t be wasted like this._ At the time, Gilbert had just scoffed. In retrospect, he knew the warden was right. Yes, they’d broken out with the riot they wound up causing, but someone could have been seriously hurt.

Why, yes, Gilbert.

Someone could have been.

As for Tino, both Abel and Gilbert—and a handful of other Nachtadlers—could attest that the nurse was likely one of the kindest people in the city. Arthur listened in sorrowful silence as they shared their anecdotes of soft hands, gentle eyes, _couldn’t hurt a fly._ A part of him was tempted to say no. What would happen if he rejected the warden? Would everyone scramble to find alternatives? That wouldn’t do. No need to cause a fuss. And what if there were no better options?

He had to get back to work. That was what his life had become. Two years ago, his biggest problem was not having a job. Now, his boss was the villain of his story.

Who would the baby think was the bad guy?

 _He won’t know about any of this,_ Arthur promised himself. _He’ll grow up separate from all of this._

_All of us._

 

Gilbert was the one who drove him to the house. They went at night, in a downpour. Gilbert didn’t speak, so Arthur didn’t either. The baby in his arms was sleeping; he’d just gotten over a cold, so he snored a little, snuffy. Arthur lightly stroked his soft whorl of blond hair. He’d hoped the wee lad wouldn’t take after Densen, but the pale hair was unmistakable. _You’re blond, too,_ Antonio had pointed out. _He’ll look like his ma—his papa._

Arthur’s friends had never misgendered him until he had a baby. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. The vast majority of people would have trouble removing the female element they saw as so intrinsic to creating life.

Gilbert parked down the street from the house. They sat in the dark, listening to the rain thrum against the roof, windscreen, and bonnet of the car. This was happening. This was the great solution.

“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Gilbert, voice low to prevent waking the boy.

“No,” replied Arthur, without pause. This was his punishment. He would not soften it with company.

Gilbert touched his shoulder, but said nothing. Arthur was glad for the gloom; it hid the tears in his eyes. _No more stalling._ He left the car, holding his baby close to his chest and tugging up the blanket to protect him from the onslaught of rain. Up the street, across the yard. Only the upstairs windows were lit up; he imagined the pair of them getting ready for bed, taking turns brushing teeth, perhaps thanking God for good fortune before they went to sleep.

Arthur’s legs trembled as he stepped up to the front door. Sheltered by the overhang, he looked down at the baby. Those eyes, the deepest blue, peered up at him. Arthur had tried his damnedest to avoid bonding with the baby, and now that came back to bite him. Guilt’s poison-tipped fangs sank in. He had so few happy memories with the baby, tainted by stress and dysphoria and grief. He had no golden times with him. He’d distanced this child from its parent for his own selfish benefit. It had made nothing easier. It was a mistake. All of this was.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, but tears still escaped. He kissed the boy’s forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered shakily. “I love you. You’ll never know it, but I do love you. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, carefully, he crouched and set the swaddled baby down on the welcome mat. His son watched him, trusting him to know what he was doing. Expecting him to pick him back up, always, after putting him down.

Arthur lifted both hands: one to knock on the door, and the other to cover his mouth, to keep his whimpers muffled as he turned and ran. _I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry._

He couldn’t help it. It went against the plan, but he skidded to a halt on the wet grass and hid behind one of the trees in their yard, a yard big enough for a growing boy to romp and play. Arthur peered around the tree, raindrops pelting him, shivering with the chill and stifled sobs.

A downstairs light flicked on, then an outside light, bathing the boy in a golden glow. The door opened. Tino frowned in confusion when he was greeted with no one, then gasped at the sight of the baby. He stooped to pick him up, and Arthur’s heart was at once warmed and torn by the care Tino already treated his son with. The nurse scanned the yard with bright, concerned eyes. Arthur ducked out of sight behind the tree. Then, slowly, he peeked round to watch Tino bundle the baby closer and take him inside to warm, dry safety. He would find the note in the blanket, a scrap of paper that said only, _My name is Peter. Please help me._ He would mother him and father him where Arthur couldn’t. He would be the hero.

Arthur watched until every light turned off, leaving him blind and alone. He wiped tears and rain from his eyes. He whispered, “Goodbye, love.”

And he hurried away into the night.


	16. Chapter 16

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**MIDTOWN**

Francis is standing in the alley behind the bank, a leather bag over his shoulder, his troubled thoughts assaulting the inside of him while the rain batters the exterior. He hasn’t done a job like this before. He’s broken into places with higher security, but he’s never had this much turmoil weighing him down during a heist. Before his partnership, every job was approached with a steady, alert mind. During the pregnancy, Francis had what he’d thought was a lot of anxiety. Now he knows that was but trifles. This is true hell inside his skull. Worry beyond worry. But the thing is—his anxiety really boils down to one person.

The soft splashes of footsteps in puddles. Francis ducks into the shadows, brick hard against his shoulders, but stands up straighter when he makes out not the familiar shape of not a guard, but a small Englishman.

“Arthur.” Francis’s heart feels sick. “I thought you were locked up.”

The look on Arthur’s face. It’s dangerous. His tone, too, is just about to tip into unrestrainable fury. “No, I was actually checking out the prison for you. Making sure your cell has enough room for your ego.”

“Oh.” Francis lets the bag drop to the cobbles and edges away from the wall. “Nice of you.”

“Mm.” They’re circling each other slowly, like animals. Neither has ever seen the other animated by this tense, rising rage. Neither knows what the other is truly capable of, and that alone gives the proceedings respectful distance.

Hesitation is death. But not now.

“You told them,” says Arthur, eerily light. “About Peter.”

Saving grace: Francis’s face contorts with palpable regret. “I’m—”

 _“Don’t.”_ Arthur steps closer, jabbing Francis’s chest with a righteous fingertip. “Do _not_ say you’re sorry. Murderers have my son. He could be dead.” His jaw trembles here, just a little. “I don’t know if my son is alive or not. Because of you. Don’t you _dare_ try to apologize to me.”

Francis grabs Arthur’s wrist before he can jab again. “Then what do you want from me? I can’t turn back time.” His expression hardens. “And you should expect things like this to happen when you betray someone. Don’t pretend I crossed the line first. You have been _fuck_ ing a _police_ man.”

Arthur moves yet closer, pushes right up against Francis, glaring through the rain into his eyes. “He isn’t a policeman. He is an agent who is going to arrest your beloved Russians tonight.”

Francis shoves Arthur back. “You disgust me. You think the world revolves around only you.”

The Englishman nearly scoffs up a lung. “Well, if that isn’t the bloody pot calling the kettle black. You only care about Francis Bonnefoy. You _always_ come first. You and your career. Oh, shan’t have a meaningful relationship, that would require effort better spent kissing Russian arse.”

“Oh, I always come first?” Francis spreads his arms wide; the only thing keeping him from yelling is the guard standing glumly on the other side of the bank. “And how many times have you taken the fall for _your_ mistakes, hm? When you are arrested, when you are too inexperienced, when you think you’re the best con around but you’re just a lucky little upstart? How many scars and bruises have you gotten from our master fence?”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “She beats you when . . . when I—”

“Fuck up? Oui.” Francis’s grin is ugly. “So tell me which of us is loyal. I took you in, I protected you from them, from everyone, and the only times you’ve gotten hurt is when you refuse to listen to me.”

Arthur’s face goes blank, a guilty epiphany, then returns to anger. “But that makes no sense. Why would you stay with them all this time if they treat you this way? Why would you bring me and Gilbert and Toni into it?”

“You all brought yourselves into it.” Francis flicks his hand; raindrops scatter. “Natalya Arlovskaya loves me. My father never did. My mother was useless. Natalya was the first. The only person who thinks I’m worth anything.”

“Are you mad?” Arthur shakes his head. “She doesn’t love you. Your _friends_ love you.”

“They love _this_!” He jerks an arm up, waves a hand round in front of his face. “They love what they see. They don’t know me. None of you do.” Arthur starts to speak, but Francis steps forward, eyes bright with pain. “You think I don’t want things? You think I’m happy that you get all the recognition? I taught you, I _made_ you, and is my face on the posters? Does anyone know my name?”

Arthur can say nothing. He had no idea how bitter Francis was. Is this why they’ve never been together? The thought is another foot dug into the old crevasse in his broken heart. How long has Francis held this hidden grudge? How long has he lived behind all these self-imposed bars, acted in these roles he’s made for himself, put up barriers between himself and the real world? Arthur worried about himself having no real identity anymore, but now he sees. Arthur was born in a lie; the invented truth he places over that is no less true for being man-made. Francis wears so many masks, they’ve become tangled, embedded. His friends don’t know him, but neither does he.

Francis loves the man standing in his way. A truth that cannot be admitted.

Arthur thinks back to his years of thieving, of never once using a weapon. _Do no harm._ Francis always said it was ungentlemanly, showed a lack of skill, a lack of self-control. Arthur lets his fists fall loose. He won’t fight his partner. They’ve both righted and wronged each other. Right now, there are more important things on the line.

He gives in to the pain in his body, just a little; it tires him enough to take the edge off his rage. “Tonight is the end of the Russians. If you insist on following them, it’ll be the end of you, too. This is your chance to change your mind.”

Francis shakes his head, takes a pocket watch from his waistcoat. If they work fast, they’ll still be late to the rendezvous. He snaps the watch shut. “You never intended to steal the crown, did you.”

Distraction only lasts a moment.

Except when you’re having a breakdown.

Arthur shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

Water drips from the curled ends of Francis’s hair. “If we show up at that lighthouse without the crown, she will kill you. And Peter.”

Arthur closes his eyes for just a second. “She’ll have bigger fish to fry than me.” He turns away.

Francis stares. “If you leave, you are a dead man walking.”

Arthur picks up the leather bag, removes the blow lamp from it, and hefts it at a pair of trash cans. The resulting crash has a French shout sounding out front and footsteps pounding down the side alley.

“Technically,” says Arthur, “I’m a dead man running.”

One hand holding his lamenting ribs, the thief-of-all-trades bolts. The gentleman thief snarls a curse at him and follows.

 

**LIBER LIGHTHOUSE**

The island, the sea, the sky. All of them have entered a furor. The rain cuts sideways through the air; the wharves are sprayed relentlessly with seawater. The land around the lighthouse is protected by boulders, but puddles still form on the broken pavement and scattered patches of drowned grass. The great slanted lighthouse has been abandoned since the West Wharf was put out of use, but the Russians have scattered kerosene lanterns around the place, hanging from boards jutting out of Liber, sitting on stones and the few flat spots on the ground. The flames flicker in the paint of the cars; a great herd of vehicles graze in front of the lighthouse. They block the only way in. It’s two herds, really. The Russians and Nachtadlers on the lighthouse side, the police (a much smaller herd) unable to get past. Several windows have already been shattered. Gunmen crouch behind cover on both sides. No one moves.

Arthur and Francis lope in, both of them stitched in the sides and panting hard. The constables take aim, alarmed, but Ludwig calls them off. He watches Arthur intently—exasperatedly—until the thief notices him and gives a weak wave, more focused on regaining his breath than etiquette. Ludwig shakes his head. He doesn’t even want to know what state that prison is in. (You really don’t, Ludwig.)

“Nobody shoot at us, please,” calls Arthur, once composed. “Natalya doesn’t go in for preemptive murder.”

Francis calls something authoritative in Russian. When a response comes, Francis grabs Arthur’s arm to tug him past the panda cars. Arthur glimpses a flash of concern on Ludwig’s face before he’s out of sight and they’re walking through rainy No Man’s Land.

Here is the rendezvous point. Behind the lighthouse, lit by scattered lanterns, five figures stand. Gilbert and Abel. Natalya and Ivan. Alfred.

More shocking than the fact that Ivan and Alfred are pointing guns at each other is the fact that Natalya has no umbrella held over her head. She doesn’t even have a hat on; she is an angry ice goddess who resists melting in the rain by sheer spite alone.

Alfred’s face first lights up, then darkens with regret and concern. “Arthur, I’m so sorry—”

“Shut up,” snaps Natalya.

Arthur gives him half a smile.

“Oh, it’s alright for him to apologize to you,” mutters Francis. “Oui, of course.”

“Silence.” This is snapped from Natalya, too, and Francis ducks his head and shoulders as if he was struck.

Gilbert’s lip curls in disgust.

Natalya holds out her hand to Arthur. “The crown.”

Arthur begins to walk to her, but instead veers to stand beside Alfred. “I’m afraid there will be no crowns tonight.”

Natalya looks to Francis, who shakes his head. Slowly, Natalya lowers her hand and returns her frigid gaze to Arthur. “The intensity of your stupidity impresses me. Francis, end this charade.”

From his jacket, Francis removes a pistol and aims it at Arthur.

Alfred edges backward, blocking Arthur and glaring at both Francis and Ivan. He’s about to risk shifting his aim when the sound of another safety flicking off makes them all look over at Gilbert, who has his pistol pointed at Francis.

(It’s at times like this that gentlemen thieves wish French had the harsh, succinct profanity of English.)

“Let’s not shoot our friends tonight,” says Gilbert, cool tone doing little to hide the fire inside him.

Over Alfred’s shoulder, Arthur has gotten over his shock enough to glare at Francis. He opens his mouth, but Abel catches his eye and gives the tiniest shake of his head. There’s a darkness in those eyes Arthur’s never seen before. Selfishly, he’s glad to have Alfred to hide behind.

“Mr. Beilschmidt.” Natalya narrows her eyes at him. “Do I detect weakness in your loyalty?”

Gilbert grimaces at her. “It has to exist in the first place to be weak.”

Before Natalya can come up with something catchy, one of her goons comes around the lighthouse. They exchange some Russian, then he retreats; moments later, Antonio and the Vargas brothers approach, with Chief Ludwig Beilschmidt in tow. Gilbert’s eyes widen, confidence flitting away. Abel murmurs something to him urgently. Ludwig, as usual, looks disapproving. This is not the time to be affected by emotions. _Get yourself together, Gilbert._

“What’s the matter, Prussian?” asks Natalya, sneering at him. “Speechless, for once? I would have thought you’d have a lot to say to your brother, after—”

Distraction only lasts a moment.

 _Click._ In her second of over-confidence, Ludwig has his gun aimed at Natalya.

The police chief of Belfaux has Natalya Arlovskaya at gunpoint.

Everyone stares at him.

He lifts his chin slightly, brow low on his eyes. “You all talk too much.”

Now they stand in a ring of alliances and betrayals. Natalya stabs Antonio with her gaze. “I’m glad all the treachery is coming out at once.”

The Spaniard lifts his shaky, gloved hands, his silence eloquently indicating where he believes the treachery lies. At his sides, Lovino glares and Feliciano can’t look away from Ludwig, who is concentrating with every disciplined fibre of his being on the guns. One twitch of the hand, that’s his only warning before someone dies.

Francis looks at Antonio in despair. “You knew about this?”

Antonio drops his hands, bewildered. “You didn’t?”

“Trust issues,” says Alfred wisely, “lead to communication issues.”

Gilbert nods, getting his verve back. “Let this be a lesson to us all.”

Arthur peeks round Alfred. “If I’m not allowed to quip, neither are you two.”

“Enough!” Natalya comes close to a raw shout; she takes a few steadying breaths before glaring at Gilbert. “Tell them why you stand where you do, Prussian.”

Dread twists in his stomach. “Because this is my city and my family, and Francis was prepared to betray both. Did betray one, actually. The boy was a secret.”

The word sparks Natalya’s eyes. “Secret. Yes. Arthur isn’t the only one with secrets.”

Only Feliciano notices the fear in Ludwig’s eyes.

But Natalya doesn’t look away from Gilbert. “Go on. Tell them what everyone in this city will be talking about, now that my men have spread the word. Tell them what the rioters will be screaming about. Tell them who the Grand Duke of Belfaux takes to bed.”

Gilbert glances at Abel, whose brow is furrowed. Such trust in those eyes. Such affection Gilbert is often undeserving of. He inhales. Exhales. Shrugs. “Ja, Roderich and I fuck.”

Shocked silence. Eight pairs of wide eyes stare at him.

Gilbert rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “I mean, because we love each other, and all that. It sounded bad, the way I said it.”

He glances at Abel just in time to see shock morph into anger as his second-in-command takes out his pistol and shoots him in the chest.

Feliciano screams.

The rain continues to pour.

“Jesus—!” says Alfred, needing to speak but lacking the words.

Antonio has a hand over his mouth. Both Lovino and Arthur are limp-jawed, unable to look away from the collapsed, lifeless gang leader. His jacket is already drenched black with rain; it’s impossible to make out the blood.

Ludwig is not here. He is at home, his first home, with both parents and a brother and a dog. He is fogging the windows with his breath and drawing pictures with his fingertip. _What are you doing, eaglet?_ His big brother pounces on him, tickles him, then fogs the window and draws two stick figures holding hands. He labels the taller one G, the shorter L. _There we are. Brothers._

For a second, Ludwig’s arm wobbles, lowers.

Then Natalya speaks, pulling him back: “Ah, Abel. I’m glad to see the Nachtadlers still have sense, outside of their leader.”

Abel gives no response. He wouldn’t be heard, anyway; on the other side of the lighthouse, dozens of guns are now going off. Outraged Russian shouts can be made out through the assault of gunfire.

“What is that?” Natalya glares at Ludwig. “Are your constables committing suicide?”

“Nein,” he replies, a bit of a growl in his voice. “Your men are.”

The Nachtadlers have, at last, turned on the Russians. Against the gang and the police, the Russians are outnumbered. It is a fast but ugly culling.

Natalya can take no more of this. In Russian, she shrieks, “SHOOT THEM!”

Francis pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

He pulls it again, and again. Alfred looks at him, caught between relief and confusion with adrenaline stretching the tightrope to its breaking point. Behind him, Arthur reaches into his pocket and presents a palm full of bullets. He arches an eyebrow. He doesn’t have to say it. He and Francis both know the meaning:  _What’s wrong?_

_Didn’t you feel my hand?_

Francis’s eye twitches.

At the same time, Ivan fires at Ludwig. Too busy watching the others—concerned for their safety over his own, as always—he doesn’t notice until too late.

So he will be forever grateful that Feliciano crashed into him, sending them both to the ground. For a frozen moment, Feliciano is on top of him, eyes and mouth round, terrified but acting bravely anyway. Awed, Ludwig whispers, “Danke.”

Standing over Gilbert, Abel shoots Ivan’s gun-arm.

Alfred swings his arm round to shoot at Natalya, but Francis leaps at him. The Frenchman grabs his arm in both hands, shoving his shoulder into Alfred’s chest, turning him with only weight, no skill. “Get back, Arthur!” cries Alfred, trying to wrestle the gun free without—

_BANG!_

Feliciano screams again, because Arthur screams. He drops, agony radiating from his thigh. No hope for simple scrapes. Blood burns his skin. There is a killing stone inside him. He can’t escape it. Painpainpain. Here. Now. He slams a hand down on the soaked pavement, because that pain is a distraction from painpainpain and he yells, “You SHOT ME in the LEG!”

Natalya scrambles for Ivan’s dropped gun, but Abel beats her to it. He picks up the gun, flicks the safety, and beats her in the temple with it. Two hard strikes, down she goes. Abel lifts his dark gaze to Ivan.

His sister is down. His comrades are dead or dying. He has no orders to take.

Ivan turns tail and runs.

Ludwig and Feliciano chase after him.

Antonio struggles to calm his uneasy heart. Arthur is writhing on the ground, Alfred and Francis are beating the shit out of each other on the ground, and Gilbert . . .

Abel snaps his fingers. “Toni. Antonio. Focus. Gilbert isn’t dead. You and Lovino need to go help Arthur. Press down on the wound. Hard. Hold him down if you have to.” As he speaks, he crouches beside Gilbert, unbuttons his jacket to reveal a thick, tight-woven vest. Abel holds up a bullet, inspects it for blood, then removes a knife from his own jacket and cuts the vest up the middle. Beneath, Gilbert’s chest is pale, scarred in places, but unharmed. Abel gently lifts Gilbert’s eyelids, then checks his pulse.

Antonio can’t believe his eyes; he only looks away when Arthur yelps. Lovino is trying to press on the bullet wound, but Arthur keeps jerking away ( _I can’t HELP it, it HURTS_ ). “Help me,” says Lovino, and Antonio finds himself thinking back to the old times in Spain, running away from gambling dens, having only himself to worry about. No crew. No partner. No family.

He doesn’t say, _But the blood._ He doesn’t say, _But my hands._

He just crouches down and holds Arthur’s legs still while Lovino applies pressure. “Fucking Christ,” laments the thief, covering tearful eyes with a hand. “Bloody— _Jesus_ —”

“Not very mannerly,” remarks Lovino with surprising levity.

Antonio almost smiles, then glances over his shoulder.

Abel and Alfred stand at the same time. Abel assesses quickly—scratched cheek, split lip, mud in his hair, Francis broken-nosed and unconscious behind him—then goes to Arthur. Alfred follows, kneeling and holding Arthur’s hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says emphatically, as if he’s been waiting to get it out. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Talk to me when I’m not dying.”

“This can’t be worse than labor,” says Lovino, to distract him more than anything.

“Oh, it bloody well can. Labor _ended._ ”

“So will this,” says Abel, tearing a strip from the bottom of his shirt.

“The one day you don’t have bandages,” says Antonio.

“Ha-bloody-ha.” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut when Abel wraps the tourniquet tight around his thigh. “A bit tighter, completely cut off circulation, yeah?”

“That’s the idea.” Abel looks to Alfred. “Can you carry him?”

Alfred nods, thumb unconsciously stroking Arthur’s hand.

“Take him around to the constables. He needs a surgeon as soon as possible.”

Alfred nods again, lifts Arthur up like a bride. Instead of more swearing, as everyone expected, the Englishman buries his face in Alfred’s shoulder. They see the American kiss the top of his head before they vanish round the lighthouse.

As if on cue, a groan comes from Gilbert’s direction. Voice thick, the gang leader says, “What the hell happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but my theory is the pain sent your body into shock and you passed out,” replies Abel, offering him a hand. “I thought you were used to getting shot.”

Gilbert scowls groggily, taking his hand. “Ugh. You’re demoted.”

Abel smiles faintly as he hauls his leader to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“So . . .” Lovino raises his eyebrows. “That was planned, right?”

“Ja, but I didn’t expect it to hurt that much. Next time, we’re testing the vests on live bodies.” He buttons his jacket back up, then looks abruptly alarmed. “What did I miss? Is anyone dead?”

“No one’s dead,” says Abel. “But Ludwig and Feliciano went after Ivan.”

Gilbert’s shoulders square. His determined brow is the same as Ludwig’s. “Which way?”

Abel gestures. “But you really shouldn’t stress your body after—”

“That’s funny, you sound an awful lot like a second-in-command.” Gilbert runs off, calling over his shoulder, “Tell you what, if I make it back alive, you’re promoted!”

 

**MIDTOWN**

Ludwig knows just as well as Alfred: cons are sprinters, not marathoners. Ivan will either run until he collapses—unlikely, given his fighting ability, even with a shot arm—or he has a destination in mind. Ludwig knows Feliciano is behind him, but he doesn’t tell him to turn back. If Feli wants to fight for this, Ludwig will not stop him. The footsteps never lag behind him, even though it must be hard on the angel’s body. Ludwig is heartened by it. He will kiss Feliciano when this is over with. Some things are facts, and that is a fact.

Ivan stops at a building that nearly makes Ludwig’s heart stop, until he remembers: this is a disused icehouse. It doesn’t hold ice anymore; it’s waiting to be bought and repurposed. Peter isn’t freezing to death inside. But that doesn’t mean other harm hasn’t come to him.

Ivan kicks the door in. There’s a high scream from inside, but muffled. Feliciano runs in, slipping fearlessly past Ivan. Peter is bound, gagged, and blinded in the straw. Feliciano says, “Shhh, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” and quickly unties the boy’s ankles and wrists. He doesn’t even have shoes or socks; his little feet are reddened and his ankles are bruised. Peter blinks open teary blue eyes. He can barely see Feliciano—the only light is the street lamp outside—but he’s small, pale, and has a kind glimmer to his eyes like Tino. Peter hugs Feliciano with all his might, and the angel hugs him back, closing his eyes and humming to drown out the sounds of violence in the street.

Ludwig takes his gun from his holster. “Come quietly, Ivan. Do yourself a favor. You’ve dug the grave deep enough already.”

Ivan stares at him, taking the words in first over a language barrier, then a sanity barrier. He showed them the boy. He did something good. Does that save his soul? Sister will be very angry. He didn’t follow her orders. But she wasn’t awake to give new ones. Is it his fault? Or her fault?

No, it can’t be her fault.

He doesn’t know what to do. His sister was his axis; now he is falling, spinning and falling farther and farther away from the light. He’s backed into a corner. He has no plan. He’s dug his grave far enough. But—

_Promise me, Vanya._

A little girl’s voice. Children. Innocence?

_Promise me if we go down, we go down fighting._

A little boy’s voice.

_I promise._

What a damned shame.

Ivan lunges at Ludwig. The gun goes off, but it’s noise and heat, burning across his shoulder, barely a nick. Ivan wrestles the gun out of Ludwig’s grasp, but Ludwig wrestles it right back; the pair of them are a mass of fists and jerking elbows and rising knees, two bears with blunted claws. Ivan’s arm should hold him back, but his desperation makes up for it. He has nothing to lose.

A lucky blow. Ludwig stumbles. That’s all it takes.

Ivan is all over him. He shoves him up against the wall, slams his skull against the bricks. Ludwig grabs at him, vision blocked by black stars. His hand finds material and he yanks instinctively; Ivan’s scarf comes free, revealing hideous burn scars on his throat. Ivan sees Ludwig wince at the unsightly skin and roars, truly a bear now, and closes his mighty paw around Ludwig’s unmarred neck. Ludwig jerks in his grasp, but he had begun this out of breath and now he cannot get it back. He kicks at Ivan’s legs, but the formidable man will not be felled. This is his last stand.

_BANG!_

Blood spatters Ludwig, flecks his cheek. Ivan drops to the ground, eyes lightless, blood pouring over his neck and chest, hiding the scars. Ludwig stares a moment longer, to make sure he’s dead, then lifts his gaze.

Gilbert stands in the halo of a street lamp, chest—notably undamaged by bullets—rising and falling in time with Ludwig’s.

Ludwig pushes off the wall, stepping into the street. It’s not enough, after all this, but he says, “Danke.”

Gilbert lowers the gun. “Tut mir sehr leid.”

Neither move first; they grab each other into an embrace at the same time, squeezing tight even though Gilbert’s chest still hurts, and even though his throat burns and aches, Ludwig says, “Brüder.”

Gilbert smiles. “Für immer.”

“Ludwig?”

They part and turn. Feliciano and Peter stand in the doorway of the icehouse, Peter holding his hands over his eyes as instructed. Feliciano’s eyes only glance off the Russian corpse. He swallows, breathes. He can be brave. He is brave.

“Gilbert!” he cries suddenly, distracted. “You died!”

“Nope. False advertisement,” replies Gilbert. “Arthur’s not the only con man around here, you know.”

“Oh. Well. I’m glad you’re not dead.” Feliciano looks to Ludwig, takes a deep breath. He’s thought about how to say this so many times, from so many angles, but now he just speaks with honesty. “I know you don’t like me anymore, and I don’t know why, but I just want you to know I didn’t mean to do anything, I didn’t want to make you hate me, I—”

Ludwig steps closer, frames Feliciano’s face in his hands. Oh, how he’s missed this soft skin. “I should apologize. Not you. I should never have been so . . . black and white about things.”

Gilbert arches an eyebrow, smirking. _Amen to that._ (At this point, nothing could surprise him, so he skips over all that and settles on being happy for them.)

Feliciano’s beautiful eyes search Ludwig’s face. “You mean you’ll take me back?”

“Only if you’ll take me.”

The little Italian’s face lights up, and he jumps up into Ludwig’s arms, and their kiss is the sealing of a deal, the saving of a life, the forever and the always.

“Well, would you look at that.”

They pull apart. Gilbert has Peter on his hip, the boy already falling asleep in arms that haven’t held him since he was a baby, and his smile is a rare, soft one. “It stopped raining.”

Even though the tears have yet to dry on its face, Belfaux smiles, too.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter (minus epilogue)! Say it ain't so! I honestly can't believe this story is ending, considering I've been trying to write it for literal years. Which makes it all the more lovely (all the lovelier, that sounds way better) to have y'all enjoy this story so much! I'm so grateful to everyone who's been reading, commenting, kudosing, bookmarking—times is tough and it all gives me life, so thank you very, very much :D!
> 
> [Question: How would you all feel about a few one-shots set in Belfaux, before or after the events of PiC? Please give me your thoughts/suggestions! xo]

**_1 9 2 7_ **

**CHÂTEAU EDELSTEIN**

Roderich wakes up to muffled, distant shouting. He blinks, sits up in confusion. Basch stands in his doorway. Only then does Roderich remember his bodyguard’s voice, rousing him gently from slumber.

“What is that?” asks Roderich. “Outside?”

Just as the words leave his mouth, he puts it together—shouting outside the Grand Duke’s mansion? After all that’s been going on? It must be rioters, come at last to usurp him, tear him from limb to limb. _Off with his head._ This is how it ends.

“Reporters,” says Basch.

Roderich pauses in his misery. “Pardon?”

“Reporters, mein Herr,” he repeats. “Journalists. They want to know if you’re really in love with Gilbert.”

“. . . Oh.” Well, that’s better than rioters, but how do they know? Did Gilbert tell them? The thought is foolish. An enemy of Gilbert’s, then, using it against him. Roderich’s reputation is collateral damage. _Such are the risks of dating a gang leader,_ he thinks, before his heart can bother with regret or betrayal. He’s stronger than a man who worries his life away. He won’t hide from the truth. He will defend himself, his love, his people—even if the latter is tricky at times.

“You don’t have to go out there, Roderich,” says Basch gently.

Roderich gives him a brief smile. “Yes, I do.”

Basch looks at him with new respect—or perhaps a revitalized form of the old respect—and inclines his head. Then he fetches Roderich’s corset, helps him lace, and holds up two coats. One that he often wears for public addresses, muted blue and grey, masculine. The other is one he wears only at home: a deep, gorgeous indigo with a flared cut that will accentuate—and feminize—his waist.

Roderich will not hide.

Outside, with Basch at his side, Roderich greets the flock of reporters from the top of his front steps. He looks down at them, subjects before their king, holding notepads and pens and recorders, all of them ravenous for the truth.

“Monsieur!” one calls. “Is it true that you and the leader of the Nacthadlers are in a romantic relationship?”

Roderich lifts his chin. “Yes. It is true. But”—he’s glad Gilbert isn’t here, but at the same time wishes he was, to hear this—“he is no longer their leader. He and the members of the gang have retired from crime.”

This gets the flock atwitter. “You admit to being involved with criminal activity?”

“No. I never said that.”

“But you condoned it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you allowed it to happen?”

“I allowed it to happen only until I could stop it,” says Roderich, careful but firm. “I stopped it. No more gangsters. No more violence.”

A female reporter stretches her recorder out to him. “And do you know where Gilbert Beilschmidt is right now?”

Roderich hesitates. “No. I don’t.”

 

**BELFAUX TRIBUNAL**

None of them want to be, but Gilbert, Antonio, and Arthur are sitting in a courtroom, about to witness two deaths.

Alfred isn’t here. He and Ludwig are sorting out the nightmare of evidence for the case, trying to get it together in a manner than can be reported and read again to aid constables in future. Alfred did offer to be here for Arthur, but he declined. He has Gilbert and Antonio, and even if he didn’t, he would still be here. He has to be here. He won’t believe it actually happened, otherwise.

The doctors heavily discouraged it. _Give your leg a chance to heal,_ they said. But he’d asked for crutches, and they’d provided them, so clearly they weren’t serious about the need for rest. _Yes, they were,_ said Abel. Arthur just shrugged. _Whatever. I’ll rest when I’m dead._ He knows he looks worse for wear, seated between Gilbert and Antonio. His ribs are wrapped—not to bind, which the doctors also discouraged, but to help the bruising—and his eye is black, was nearly swollen shut earlier. _And_ his thigh is throbbing, despite the bullet having been removed and the pain medication floating through his veins. _Oh well._ He isn’t here to be seen (although there are several people who keep glancing over at him and whispering).

This isn’t an actual courtroom, but a room beyond those rooms, tucked in the cramped space behind justice. It’s darker in here, and there’s no bench, no judge, no jury. Just seats all around the room and a raised platform in the middle, above which hangs a rope tied into a noose. Beneath that empty necklace, there’s a square of floor that’s a different color than the rest. Pull a lever, and it collapses.

“It breaks your neck,” murmurs Gilbert, “rather than chokes you. It’s supposed to be more humane. Quick drop.”

Antonio looks about to be sick. Arthur is grateful for the words, even if death will never be humane. He can picture the slow death—skin paling to blue, legs pedaling, eyes bulging, the definition of desperation—and he’s glad that won’t be the reality. It’s too much suffering, for everyone involved.

They bring Natalya in first. The justice men look like penguins in their stately black and white; in contrast, Natalya looks like a rabid beast. Failure has robbed all grace from her. She jerks at the binds on her wrists, stumbles several times from the chains on her ankles. Her hair is ratty, her eyes wild. Arthur is more disgusted with himself than with her. How did he take orders from this person? How did he end up with his safety—and the safety of his son—in her deranged clutches?

 _Peter is safe,_ he reminds himself. The angels are watching him, with Elizabeta and a few other Nachtadlers guarding them, just in case. Abel would be there, too, but he’s on an errand, delivering a get-well-soon gift to the warden’s nanny. _We can take Peter home for you,_ Feliciano offered, but Arthur declined immediately. It was selfish to keep the boy from home for a few extra hours, but Arthur had to be the one to take him. It wasn’t up for negotiation. Thankfully, Peter was content to sleep in late and then be pampered with waffles in bed, courtesy of Laura.

The head penguin clears his throat, and everyone watching falls silent. He tips up his chin, adjusts spectacles low on his nose, and reads from a piece of very official-looking paper. “Miss Natalya Arlovskaya. You are charged with scheming to steal the crown of our honorable Grand Duke Roderich Edelstein, as well as the assault of Mathieu Williams, the kidnapping of Peter Oxenstierna, and several dozen counts of theft.”

There was a bit of discussion, behind the scenes, whether or not Natalya should be charged for things she forced others to do. It was quickly determined—with a bit of pushing from Roderich—that because the Nachtadlers and Arthur were being pardoned, Natalya would take the fall.

And what a fall it is. Arthur thinks of everything he’s stolen over the years, every last lovely bauble. What if those were tallied up? How much punishment would absolve those sins? Enough lashes to bare every bone in his back. He’s grateful to Roderich, for the pardon, and to Gilbert. He has a high suspicion that the Prussian is behind their leader’s compassion for the cons. Arthur glances at Gilbert now. He gives a light smile, touches his knee to Arthur’s. It’s a gesture that reminds him of Alfred, and he’s glad the Prussian can be here where the American cannot. _Cut from the same cloth,_ he thinks, surprising himself with the intensity of his own fondness.

The penguins fit the noose round Natalya’s neck. She spits at them like a cat, but they ignore her. The head penguin regards her solemnly. “Your punishment shall be hanging from the neck until dead. Do you have any final requests?”

Arthur wonders what they would grant. A steak dinner? A clarinet solo? One last whiff of roses? He doesn’t want to think about what he would ask for. He’s not a con anymore, so he needn’t dwell on it. (But he’d probably request a cuppa tea. With milk _and_ sugar. Might as well splurge.)

Natalya makes no request, only turns and death-glares at Arthur, Gilbert, and Antonio. In Russian, she says something that is best left unprinted. Her tone is filthy enough to give them a good idea, though.

“See you in hell,” mutters Gilbert.

Antonio crosses himself, even though he hasn’t believed in anything—besides luck—for decades.

“May God have mercy on your soul.” The head penguin gives a gesture with chilling finality. An assistant pulls the lever.

A wooden crash within the platform.

Natalya falls. Only a second, maybe two. She was standing, and now she’s hanging, dead. A bit of a bounce, and her neck was broken. Now she’s dead.

 _It’s over,_ thinks Arthur. It should be a relief, but it can’t be. Not with what’s coming next.

The penguins step out while broad men in masks walk in to remove the corpse. They don’t cover her over or lie her on a gurney, they just take her by the arms and the legs and walk her out between them. No dignity for the dead and damned, it seems. Arthur wonders if they’ll bury her or burn her. Does she have any family remaining in Russia? Will they ship the ashes away? Or just toss them off the wharf?

The oak doors open. The penguins escort their next victim in.

The sight of Francis Bonnefoy makes Arthur’s heart ache.

The gentleman thief no longer seems a gentleman. His face is wreckage; his nose is red and swollen and crooked where Alfred’s fist broke it. His stubble is untrimmed. His hair is not as messy as Natalya’s; Arthur can imagine him finger-combing it in his holding cell. Arthur wanted to visit him before all this, have one last conversation with him, but he wasn’t allowed. In retrospect, he doesn’t know what he’d say. _I forgive you,_ perhaps? But is that even true? It just seems like something you should say to someone on death row.

Francis is on death row.

Arthur’s friend, partner, love is about to die.

The Frenchman’s blue eyes are dark, lightless. He looks around the room, shoulders drooping with exhaustion and defeat. And yet, when he sees all these people around him, watching him, he stands up a little straighter. He has an audience, at last. His steps up onto the platform are proud ones; life returns to him as he nears his death.

For so long, he has longed for this stage, his stage. For so long, his job—his boss, the only one he thought loved him—kept him from the public eye. He’s here now. He’s no longer a pretty creature, but he’s here now.

“Mr. Francis Bonnefoy,” says the head penguin.

Francis actually smiles. At last, everyone will know his name.

“You are charged with assaulting and attempting to murder an undercover special agent, Alfred Jones.” Francis pays no attention. The penguin continues, “Your punishment shall be to hang from the neck until dead. Do you have any last requests?”

Francis looks up as the noose is fitted around his neck. His gaze finds Arthur, Gilbert, and Antonio. A look of peaceful longing warms his face, and he says, “A round of applause.”

Surprised silence, followed by affronted murmurs from the justice men. How can they grant this wish? It’s entirely possible, yes, but to praise a guilty criminal? It’s morally and ideologically wrong. The head penguin shakes his head, begins to lift his hand to gesture.

Arthur claps. Loudly. If he could stand without his crutches, he would, but he can’t. So he just sits with his pain and his unfallen tears and he claps.

On either side, Gilbert and Antonio consider joining in. Gilbert thinks of Peter, the biggest betrayal Francis committed. Antonio thinks of Francis aiming a gun at Alfred and Arthur, choosing the Russians over his friends. Gilbert leans back to look grimly at Antonio. Both understand why Arthur claps, but neither will join him.

But Francis doesn’t care. Only one pair of hands claps, but he closes his eyes, basking in it as if a whole colosseum of people is applauding him. He cannot spread his bound arms, but he still bends forward, golden hair falling to hide his tainted face. He bows to accept this that has been given to him. A dream, if you squint, come true.

The head penguin scowls. “May God have mercy on your soul.” He gestures to his assistant.

The lever is pulled. The wooden square collapses with a crash.

Francis falls. The rope yanks him back, up. His neck audibly snaps; his legs swing. And then he’s still. He’s dead.

Arthur isn’t clapping anymore. He isn’t breathing, either. Antonio has a gloved hand over his mouth. Gilbert can’t look away. None of them can.

The masked men remove Francis’s body, the limp thing that was once Francis Bonnefoy. An empty puppet, that’s all that’s left. The man is gone; only the mask remains. The oak doors swing shut. The penguins say their words of closing, but Gilbert, Antonio, and Arthur don’t hear it. The trio lingers, until they’re sure they won’t sob or gag; then Gilbert helps Arthur to his feet and they make their slow, haunted way out of the courthouse.

Never again will they speak to Francis. No more smoking with him. No more laughing, scheming, dancing. No more falling asleep beside him. Arthur can’t comprehend it. This is all. It’s over. He’s gone. He won’t be at the flat when Arthur goes home. No one will leave pain aux raisins crumbs on the sofa. No one will wear those silly purple clothes.

For some reason, it’s that detail—the image of a closet full of untouched clothes—that makes him want to cry the most.

Outside, where it’s overcast but still bright, they’re swarmed by reporters. They all call out at once, asking questions in French, English, and German. Loud flashes go off from oversize cameras, making Gilbert cringe.

“Mr. Beilschmidt! Is it true that you’re involved romantically with our Grand Duke?”

“Is it true that you’re retiring?”

“How do you feel that you all escaped punishment?”

One reporter pushes through to the front, holding her recorder right in Arthur’s face. “I’m with the Belfaux Gazette. It’s understood that you often worked with Francis Bonnefoy. Today, you were pardoned and he was hanged. Do you have anything to comment about that?”

Arthur stares right through her.

Gilbert shoves her recorder away. “Fuck off, there’s your comment.” He raises his voice. “If you don’t make room for these crutches, I’m coming back out of retirement.”

They all move aside, except for the polished Belfaux Gazette lady. She glances hopefully at Antonio, who says, “I thought a gazette was a deer in Africa.”

She blinks slowly at his (seemingly) genuine confusion, then tells her recorder, “No comment,” and walks rather stiffly away.

Gilbert shakes his head with a small smile, but Arthur doesn’t look at either of them. Graciously, they let him have his silence.

 

**HÔPITAL BELFAUX**

Other than Tino, Berwald, and Mathias, Mathieu has had no visitors. So when an unfamiliar man—a tall, blond, handsome unfamiliar man—steps into his hospital room with a vase of tulips, Mathieu doesn’t quite know what to think beyond _Wow._

“Who are you?” asks Mathieu, once he finds his voice.

The man carefully sets the vase of pink, purple, and white beauties down on the bedside table. “My name is Abel.”

Mathieu watches him, uneasiness rising. “But who . . .”

He seems to understand that the rest of the question was going to be _do you work for?_ because he tugs up his sleeve to show a black eagle tattoo.

“Oh.” Mathieu’s worry melts away as he looks at the tattoo, then spends some more time appreciating the contours of Abel’s bicep. When he lifts his gaze, the Nachtadler is watching him with faint amusement. Mathieu’s cheeks burn.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” says Abel. “You shouldn’t have been caught up in all this. Gilbert sends his regards.”

Mathieu can’t help but feel special. He’s never been singled out like this before, least of all by the (ex) leader of a gang. But he doesn’t enjoy it for long. “Peter—”

“—is fine,” says Abel. “We got him back. Safe and sound.”

Mathieu deflates with relief. “Thank you.”

Abel inclines his head, gaze warm.

A not-uncomfortable silence.

“Are you—” Mathieu stops speaking when Abel starts to turn away, but his abrupt silence in turn stops Abel. He raises an eyebrow, inquiring.

“Oh, I was just . . . I was just going to say, you can stay.” Mathieu ducks his chin. “I-If you wanted to.”

For the first time, Abel smiles.

 

**UPTOWN**

Inevitably, the time comes.

Arthur has little time to grieve Francis; he has to enjoy his few moments with Peter before they return him to his home. _You can’t rush grief,_ Ludwig told him, sounding like Abel. _Don’t feel guilty about it._ Arthur does feel guilty, though, guilty that he’s not sadder for Francis and happier for Peter.

( _He betrayed me._ That’s what he keeps reminding himself. Francis died because he was a traitor. But it’s never enemies who are traitors. Goddamn it.)

“Do you know my mama and papa?” asks Peter, looking up at Arthur.

He can’t stand the innocence in those eyes. Blue eyes, of course, it’s always blue eyes. He looks out the window at the passing houses. “Not very well, but I know who they are. They’re good to you, are they?”

“Oh, yes.” Peter nods vehemently. You’d never think he’d just been kidnapped. He inherited pluckiness, at any rate. Hopefully nothing else. “They’re the best mama and papa.”

Arthur feels rather ill.

In the driver’s seat, Alfred says, “I bet they’ll be mighty glad to see you, huh?”

Since he’s not undercover anymore, his twang has been out in full force. Already, it’s a security blanket for Arthur; the honeyed vowels wrap around him, and there’s plenty of room to curl up in their cozy drawl.

Too soon, Alfred stops the car in front of the warden house. A rainy night flashes in Arthur’s mind; tears burn behind his eyes, until Alfred twists around to gently cup his cheek.

“You can do it,” he murmurs. “You _should_ do it.”

Arthur searches his face, plagued by uncertainty.

“Just tell them the truth.” Alfred smiles kindly. “Do you want me to—”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “I can do it.” He forces a smile at Peter. “Come along, lad. Let’s go.”

It takes some doing to get out of the car with his crutches, but he manages with Peter’s help. Down the path they go, Peter proudly leading the way and providing cheerful anecdotes about different spots in the yard. _Yes,_ thinks Arthur, _that’s the tree I hid behind when I abandoned you._

Arthur takes a deep breath on the stoop. He knows Alfred is watching from the side of the street. _I can be a good man,_ he thinks. _I can be an honest man._

“Lemme ring the doorbell!” says Peter, and hops up to press a tiny button Arthur failed to notice the last time he stood at this door.

The door opens. Arthur has never seen two faces light up like this: it is truly night and day. The utter joy in their eyes as they lift up their son, kissing and hugging him, Tino openly crying and Berwald embracing them both. It is the purest form of family Arthur has ever seen, and it foolishly has him wanting to join in, to receive this outpouring of love he doesn’t deserve.

Hana comes pattering out, circling her people and yipping in delight. When she notices Arthur, she hops up at his legs; he smiles sadly and moves back, before she can knock him off-balance or hit his wounded thigh.

Tino finally looks at Arthur, remembering him and his promise, as well as the carnage in the prison that may or may not have been related to this man. All he says is, “Thank you. Thank you so much for saving our son. We could never repay you for bringing him back to us.”

Berwald nods, actual tears glistening in his stoic eyes. “He is everything to us. Thank you.”

Arthur has the words prepared in his head. _I’m his father._ “I’m . . .” He looks at them, how happy they are, how much they love each other with a purity he’ll never have. “I’m—”

Peter squeals with giggles as Hana covers his sweet face in kisses.

Arthur smiles again, sadness hidden from his eyes this time. “I’m happy to help.”

They invite him in for tea, but he declines. “Work to do,” he says, shrugging apologetically. Arthur shakes Berwald’s hand, then Tino’s hand, then allows Hana to lick his fingers. “Farewell, all,” he says, tipping his hat to them before swinging his way down the path, toward the waiting car. Minor miracle: he’s going to make it without breaking.

Until.

Behind him, he hears a squeaky voice call: “Arthur!”

He stops, looks over his shoulder.

In Tino’s arms, Peter is waving to him. “Bye bye, Arthur!”

Arthur waves back, smiling even as tears come to his eyes, and somehow maneuvers himself into the passenger seat without help. The door of the car and the door of the house close in unison. Quiet.

Alfred looks at him, knowingly. Understandingly. Lovingly. Tone gentle, he says, “Just a white lie.”

Arthur doesn’t look at him. “Need-to-know basis.” His voice breaks, and he hangs his head, a tear dropping down onto his lap. Before Alfred can speak, Arthur says, “They have their little family all figured out, it’s a nice happy arrangement, they don’t need an old stray coming in to muck things up.”

Alfred leans closer, cupping his face in both hands and tipping it up until he can look into those teary green eyes. “You aren’t an old stray. You’re a beautiful, kind, generous person.” He strokes a thumb through a wet trail on Arthur’s cheek. “You’re the most caring and intelligent gentleman I’ve ever met.” He moves closer, so the tips of their noses brush. “I love you, Arthur Kirkland.”

Arthur wants to call him a liar, but he’ll give himself this. He doesn’t deserve love like this, either, but damned if he’ll let it slip through his fingers a second time. Fool him twice, fuck right off. So he lets himself smile and doesn’t care too much when his voice wobbles as he says, “You’re going to make me cry, you git.”

Alfred smiles against his lips. “That’s the idea, darlin’.”

They kiss and embrace, and Arthur cries bittersweet tears into Alfred’s shirt. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you go.”

“When I go?” Alfred sounds confused.

Arthur sits up. “Back to Tennessee.” He sniffles. “Prat.”

“Ohhhh.” Alfred nods. “Yeah, I was worried about that, too.” From the glove compartment, he removes a folded document. “That’s why I got a . . .” He squints at the words, then shakes his head. “You still gotta teach me French.”

Arthur stares at the document, a future printed in black-and-white. _Certificat de citoyenneté._

Alfred can’t hold back his grin. “Got it lickety-split on account of havin’ friends in high places.”

Finally, Arthur forms the words: “So—you’re staying?”

The American nods. “But we gotta go home for Christmas.”

Arthur’s smile falters.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your parents won’t like me.”

“My parents will love you.” Alfred kisses his cheek. “Granted, not as much as I do. But that’s an awful lot.”

Arthur moves so their lips are together, then mumbles, “What’s going to happen?”

Alfred kisses the tip of his nose, puts the certificate away, and pull back onto the road. “I dunno.” He winks. “Reckon it’ll be a good time, though.”

Arthur stares at him with a fond incredulity, then lets his head fall back against the rest. “Ah, why not. This city could do with some optimism.”

 

 

This city.

This bright place of supper clubs and card tables, water lilies and stray dogs, dancing girls and sleeping boys, night eagles and morning coats, thieves and angels and dreams. This place that eats virtue and breathes secrets and grins with artificial malice and malicious artifice caught between its teeth.

Its leader will take a knock to his reputation, but smooth it over within the year. Its biggest gang will disband, some members finding other jobs but most joining the police force. One angel will manage a brothel; another will manage a household. An agent will work alongside the constables, aiding in undercover operations. Our thief will work with him. Partners, in all things.

Belfaux will rain on them all—many, many times. But it is still forgiving even if it forgives only rarely, and today, Belfaux will forgive. As our thief and his love drive off, the clouds abandon the sun. Golden light shines down, blessing this sinners’ isle.

There in the channel, like a flower speckled with morning dew, the city gleams.

 

 

 

_The End._


	18. Agent Kirkland's Debut - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be an epilogue, but I decided to make it one of several one-shots I'll be writing about this verse. And it wound up getting longer than I wanted, so I chopped it in half. It'll probably be lopsided, but some of the best things in life are lopsided, you know.
> 
> Also, ah, it turns out Tennessee isn't actually really cold and snowy in the winter, and actually in 1927 there was a big-ass flood in Nashville, all of which I learned after I'd written this. So. Um. Artistic license. There, we're all good. (Sorry, if Tennessee-flavored folks read this. I made your state Canadian xD)
> 
> Oh, speaking of artistic! Flock, lovelies, over to Kitty's Belfaux-inspired mini-fic! It's called "Salutations Distinguées" and it's linked somewhere round this fic, on the last chapter I believe? Here, I'll make it easier: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038012  
> You must treat your eyes to it, 'tis wonderful <3
> 
> I think that's all. Thank you for reading! :D

**_1 9 2 7_ **

 

As it turns out, the United States of America is big. Not just big. Huge. Massive. Gargantuan, one might say—if one is Arthur Kirkland, that is.

“You’ve been across a quarter of it, lengthways,” says Alfred, laughing. “There’s a whole lot more past the horizon.”

In the back of the creaking carriage—covered wagon, really—Arthur shrinks down into his coat. He’s never been more than an hour from the shore in any direction (depending on Belfaux’s traffic, of course). This place gives him the opposite of claustrophobia. He feels lost, overexposed. A tiny flea on a bloody great beast. Arthur’s breath clouds in front of him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it would be this cold.”

“This here ain’t cold, darlin’.” The twang has only gotten stronger since they got off the boat. “Wait ’til you feel it in February.”

This is December, the day before Christmas Eve. Colder than this, in _two_ months? Arthur can’t hide his startled look, and Alfred nudges his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll be long gone by then. I won’t torture you.”

 _You say that now._ Arthur gives a light smile. “Thank you.” He glances at the window, smile vanishing. He could handle New York. A city far too large for any sensible beings, but a city nonetheless. Now, here? All he can see are trees, and snowfields, and more trees. This carriage ride began in a town, but they’ve left any civilization long behind. Arthur tries to be optimistic about that and fails.

“Do you get snow in Belfaux?”

“Rarely.” Arthur turns away from the fogging window. “Never enough to stick. Never like this.”

Alfred grins. “Then you’ve never been snowshoein’, or tobogganin’, or—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tobogganin’.”

“Yes, but say it in English.”

Alfred sits up straighter and begins making animated gestures that make perfect sense to him and none at all to his companion. “You get a toboggan, that’s like a long thin sled, and you sit on it like this and you kinda ride it down a hill, in the snow. It slides on top of the snow.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Is a sled like a sledge?”

Now Alfred looks confused. “Maybe. I dunno what a sledge is.”

Arthur shakes his head. “We really ought to find a language we both speak.”

Alfred chuckles, putting an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Yessir. Maybe we can do some French lessons while we’re here.”

Arthur winces, just a little. The old wound left behind by the Frenchman is closed, nearly scarred over now, but it’s the sort of scar tissue that still twinges if you poke it the right way.

“Or we could just do French kissing,” adds Alfred, nuzzling Arthur’s jaw gently—he doesn’t move right into the kiss, in case Arthur needs space.

Arthur doesn’t shy away. He presses their lips together once, twice, slowly tugs Alfred’s bottom lip between his teeth.

“Hey.” Alfred glares teasingly. “Cannibal.”

“I have to get out all the naughtiness now.” Arthur nips his ear lobe, voice dipping as low as it can. “Since our relationship is contraband in this country.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s no good. But damn.” He frames Arthur’s face in his hands. “Don’t get me goin’ or we’ll make a real awkward first impression.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rise. “It’ll be awkward anyway. I think this might help break the ice. It would certainly thaw me, at any rate.”

Alfred kisses the tip of his nose. “I already told you. They’ll love you. Just be yourself and it’ll be fine.”

Arthur pulls the hands from his face. “I’m a con stuck in the wrong body. I don’t have the luxury of being myself.”

“An ex-con.” Alfred twines their fingers. “And what they don’t know won’t kill them.”

Before Arthur can point out the contradiction in those words, the carriage sways to a halt and the driver calls, “We’re here, Mr. Jones!”

The boyish excitement twinkling in Alfred’s eyes makes something warm flutter in Arthur’s heart. _Remember this,_ he thinks, _when you hate this place._

Alfred hops out, offers Arthur a hand (“Oh, hello, chivalry. I thought you’d died.” Alfred laughs. “Guess I’m carryin’ the bags, then.”) Once the driver has been thanked and the horses have hauled the wagon away, Arthur stands there a moment, looking around. They’re standing at the gate of a wooden fence; a faded board high over the gate reads _Elmhill Ranch_ in carved letters. The drive slopes upward; a big maroon house and an even bigger maroon barn await at the top of the hill. Arthur turns around. Snow, snow, great expanses of white and trees and shrubbery, as far as the eye can see.

Alfred is watching him. He can only shake his head. “There’s too much of it.”

The American smiles. “You’re not gonna like the view from the top, then.”

It’s a good thing Alfred convinced him to buy a pair of boots, because the snow is legion and fierce: each step requires the noisy crunching of a topmost layer of ice. “Sounds like breaking bones,” mutters Arthur, starting to lag behind. “I thought snow was soft.”

“It must’ve melted on top and then froze again.” Alfred slows his pace to let Arthur catch up. “I chased you six streets in Belfaux, but this is a workout?”

Arthur huffs a cloud at him. “You also neglected to mention that you live on a mountain.”

Alfred stifles his laughter into just a smile. “I wouldn’t really call it a mountain . . .”

At last, the top. If Arthur wasn’t already breathless, he would be now. Between the house and the barn, the view is this: fields arching higher and lower, folding over themselves, dotted with copses of trees and crags of rock and flocks of sheep that look dirty compared to the snow beneath them. It’s vast and beautiful and Arthur can only imagine the feelings it would stir come spring, vibrantly green and utterly alive.

“Alfie!”

They turn. A woman stands in the doorway, looking almost exactly like Arthur imagined a Southern housewife would look: white shirt, pastel skirt, an apron bordered with floral lace. She has her arms spread out and her lips spread even wider. “Get on over here and give your ailin’ mother a hug.”

Alfred obeys eagerly, setting down the bags to wrap his arms around her. “What’s ailin’ you, Mama?”

“Missin’ you, that’s what.” She gives his cheek a—mostly—gentle smack. “What’s this I hear tell ’bout you goin’ to France?”

“Not France. Close, though. An island next door.” He can’t stop grinning. “That’s where my friend here’s from, actually.”

They look back at Arthur, who is still several feet away, smiling nervously as a border collie circles him, sniffing and probing with her nose. “I’m under close inspection,” calls Arthur, pushing the dog’s muzzle away when it becomes a bit too interested in the zip of his trousers.

Alfred places his finger and thumb in his mouth and whistles. Immediately, Arthur’s collie and four more from the barn race over to Alfred, a joyful blur of wriggling black bodies and wagging white-tipped tails. They leap around, tugging on his sleeves and yipping, and Alfred lets them knock him to the snow ground while he laughs and says, “How are ya, Flossie? Didja miss me, Jakey Boy? Teddy Bear, look how big and handsome y’all got!”

Watching the outpouring of affection, Arthur can’t help but smile—until he looks up to see not only Alfred’s mother but his father as well, staring at him with polite wariness. If the mother is softened by middle age, the father is hardened by it.

“Alfred,” says the father in a voice deep enough to rival Ludwig’s. “Stop rollin’ around on the ground and introduce us, boy.”

 _Oh, bloody hell,_ thinks Arthur. _It begins._

Alfred gets to his feet, brushes the snow off himself. “Yessir.” He smiles at Arthur. “This is Arthur Kirkland. I work with him in Belfaux. He’s a very good friend of mine.”

Arthur watches his hand be devoured by Alfred’s father’s hand. It’s a rough, calloused thing. Arthur puts on a friendly smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Alfred’s mother and father exchange a slow look. “Oh,” says the mother. “You’re from England, then?”

“Ah. No.” His brow furrows. “I’m from Belfaux. Would it matter if I was from England?”

Alfred clears his throat. His parents both shake their heads. “No, of course not,” says the mother. “Come on, in out of the cold. There ain’t no sense in heatin’ the outdoors.”

Alfred picks up the bags again, giving Arthur a reassuring smile. Arthur wants to grab him and run, but there’s no escape. Now the overexposed feeling intensifies. Where’s the nearest non-American? Even the border collies would probably have a twang if they spoke English.

Arthur takes one last deep breath of winter air, so cold it burns his lungs. _A week,_ he thinks. _A week of this, and then we can go back home to the real world._

 

“Would y’all like a glass of tea?” Alfred’s mother stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

Alfred smiles. “Oh, yes, please. Haven’t had any since the last time I came home.”

His father nods, arms crossed over his chest. “Pour me one, would you please, dear.”

They all look to Arthur, who quickly hides his confusion. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Both parents raise their eyebrows, a warning in their eyes.

Arthur almost panics until he sees what Alfred is mouthing to him. “Ma’am,” he adds as swiftly as he can. _What’s next, fifty push-ups?_ He needs Gilbert and Antonio to joke with. Or Lovino, he’s always good to complain about daft things with. Or . . .

It’s an old wound, but it still hurts.

His confusion of why tea would ever be served in a glass is answered when he takes a sip. Cold, sugary water burns down his throat; he stifles his disgusted grimace into just a squint.

Alfred looks worried. “How is it?”

Arthur clears his throat. “Sweet. Very, very sweet.”

“It’s sweet tea,” says Alfred’s father. “You better hope it’s sweet.”

“. . . Right. Of course.” Arthur sets the glass down on the coffee table.

“You don’t like it?” asks Alfred’s mother.

Alfred and his father have the same brow, but they’re concerned and disapproving respectively.

“Oh,” says Arthur, “I just don’t feel well. Tired from all that travelling, I expect.” He gives them a weak smile, convincing because it’s partly genuine.

This is the bit where they should look sympathetic, suggest he go lie down, rest his weary bones. _Have some privacy._ But instead, Alfred’s parents just stare at him appraisingly. Like he’s a wounded hound and they’re trying to determine if it would be kinder to shoot him or not.

“So, Mr. Kirkland,” says Alfred’s mother, “Alfie dear says you work with him? Do you go undercover, as well?”

 _I’m undercover right now._ “I haven’t needed to yet, but it’s within my abilities.”

“What _do_ you do, then?” she asks, in a way that clearly implies her doubt that a man so pretty could ever do something called work.

“Paperwork, lately,” he replies, jaw a bit stiff. He’s quicker at putting together case reports than Alfred is, so he takes the brunt of that particular load. It’s strange, getting paid to sit at a desk. All the good guys do is sit, it seems: at desks, in cars, etc. (Alfred pointed out the other day that Arthur’s lack of regular strolling has added an inch to his hips. Alfred was so enamored with it, Arthur didn’t have the heart to tell him wider hips do  _not_ make him feel sexy, at all.)

“Paperwork,” echoes the mother. “You’re Alfred’s . . . secretary?”

“I thought that was a woman’s job,” says the father, even though the question wasn’t answered.

“Where I come from, a job is a job.” Arthur narrows his eyes at them. “Paperwork isn’t as exciting as tending sheep, I’m sure, but it keeps us busy enough.”

The mother looks affronted, and the father growls, “If you think you’re gonna sit here and disrespect the line of hard work my family’s been proud of for six generations—”

Alfred quickly stands up. “Excuse me, sir. Would y’all please excuse me and Arthur? I just wanna have a little word with him.” Alfred tugs Arthur upstairs, hissing, “What the hell did you say that for?”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult! . . . Alright, maybe I did, but I deserve to get at least one in. They’ve done nothing but look down their noses at me since I walked in this house.”

“Well . . .” Alfred shifts his weight.

“You know it’s true. They’ve never met someone different from them, that’s the issue here. They wouldn’t last a day in Belfaux. Just because you say polite things doesn’t mean you’re actually being polite, especially not when you sound so, what’s the word, _derisive._ Why does your father speak to you like that? You’re a grown man who’s accomplished more than he ever—”

“Arthur.” Alfred squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I love you, but please stop for five seconds.”

He falls silent, speechless. This is new.

His lover heaves a sigh, opens tired eyes. “I know they’re old-fashioned. But . . . They love me. They’ve never been cruel to me. And my father did right by me. It’s just a matter of blendin’ in with them. You were a good con, you can manage it, can’t you? Consider it a job.”

“A job,” echoes Arthur, low. “I thought this was the holidays. You know, happiness and leisure?”

Christmas at home, in Belfaux. The Nachtadlers in festive sweaters, the angels exchanging gifts, sipping eggnog late into the night with Gilbert, Antonio, and . . . It almost brings tears to his eyes. He never thought he’d get homesick, but then, he never thought he’d have to leave home, either.

“What would your parents do,” murmurs Arthur, “if they found out about us?”

Alfred glances downward. “I dunno. Throw us out, I reckon. You, at least. Probably take me straight to church to be exorcised.”

Arthur is unspeakably tempted to run downstairs and shout his homosexuality to the world. At this point, he’d gladly do a song and dance about glorious gaiety if it means they’ll be free of those two Joneses.

“I don’t understand how someone like you,” says Arthur, “came from someone like them.”

Alfred wraps his arms around him. “Must be a generational thing.”

“Sure. At least they gave you good looks.” Arthur tips his head back to kiss Alfred. Once, then another, parting his lips insistently, because there are too many feelings inside him, and if he cannot run from them, this is the next best method of exercise he can think of.

“Mmm.” Alfred glances toward the stairwell even as he presses Arthur against the wall. Travelling is terrible for intimacy, especially the illegal kind. It’s been too long. But they really, really shouldn’t . . .

But Arthur’s hips rolling against his own are so fucking sexy . . .

But . . .

“Okay,” says Alfred breathlessly, pinning Arthur to the inside of his bedroom door and struggling to unbuckle his belt with one hand, “this has to be quiet and fast.”

“Quiet and fast,” drawls Arthur, arching his back, parroting him almost perfectly. “You be one, I’ll be the other.” A sardonic eyebrow arches, but not as much as his back. “ _Daahhlin’._ ”

Oh, Alfred could just swallow him whole.

 

Downstairs, Alfred’s mother looks to his father. “What do you think?”

He shakes his head, arms still crossed. “I think that redcoat means trouble. See that look in his eyes? Deceptive. Like a snake.”

She nods. “And Alfred usually makes such nice friends. I knew Europe would be no good for him. He ain’t used to them city folk.”

“They have a whole other way of livin’.”

They sip their sweet tea.

“I wonder if he’s Catholic or Protestant,” says the mother.

 

“Oh, God,” gasps Arthur, just before Alfred slaps a hand over his mouth. The American has trouble stifling his shaky groan, however, as he gives one final shove deep within and rides his orgasm down with small, slower thrusts. Arthur reaches between them, and within moments he’s convulsing against Alfred, clinging even closer to him and trembling through the brief but beautiful feeling.

Alfred goes limp against him, pinning Arthur to the door. Arthur enjoys the weight, holding him down, protecting him. He doesn’t enjoy being made into a door-and-Alfred sandwich, however, so he nudges his lover until Alfred stands up straight. He eases out of Arthur and gingerly removes the condom. “Now I gotta hide this under somethin’ in the trash. This was three layers of sin.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes, because _not_ getting pregnant every time you have sex is Satan’s work.”

Alfred offers Arthur a tissue and uses one to clean himself off with his free hand. “I know it’s dumb, but you gotta be, y’know, culturally sensitive.”

“Oh, I don’t _have_ to be.” Arthur dries himself off, zips his trousers back up. “But I suppose I will. Since it’s the Christmas season.”

Alfred buckles his belt and laughs. “I guess I know how to get you to agree to stuff now. Sex.”

Arthur smooths his shirt. “Well, I could have told you that much.”

 

“Feelin’ better now, are you?” asks Alfred’s father, a critical eyebrow lifted.

Arthur sits down, beside Alfred this time. Only an inch between their hips. He meets the father’s gaze. The sex did take the edge off, fortunately, so he doesn’t glare. “Yes, much better, thank you.” And he says it in his Esteemed Englishman voice, the voice that sold endless junk to rich fences in Belfaux. _Consider it a job._ Fine, then, Alfred. He will treat this like a job. He will keep the personal, intimate, sensitive bits of himself tucked far, far inside. Beyond the reach of the demonic parents.

Alfred’s father nods slowly, expression unchanged. “Right.” He glances at Alfred, a tiny bit of levity coming to his tone. “Your mother’s makin’ your favorite cream pie in the kitchen, so don’t go in there. She wants it to be a surprise.”

Alfred’s excitement warps into amusement. “You’re not really supposed to tell people about surprises.”

His father shrugs, levity gone. “Figured I should do what I can to keep you from runnin’ off.”

Now Alfred’s brow furrows. “Why would I be runnin’ off?”

His father sits up a bit to glance out the window, and Arthur realizes perhaps part of the negativity isn’t because of him. “Trouble’s comin’ up the driveway.”

Alfred gets up, crosses the room to look out the window. A stricken look flits over his face, followed by anger. “No, no. Come on. It’s _Christmas._ ” He strides from the room so quickly a few decorative dolls rattle on a side table. Arthur watches him go, speechless. He wasn’t told this might happen. This Tennessee is full of unwanted surprises.

The front door opens, closes, and into the living room comes a cool gust of air, irritated Alfred, a thirty-something woman Arthur has never seen before. She reminds Arthur of Natalya: severe sharp angles, severe straight hair, severe hard expression. She smiles, but with far too many teeth. Arthur’s no expert on makeup, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be able to tell where her lipstick ends and her lipliner begins.

“Mr. Jones,” she says, a drawl so absent from her voice Arthur almost feels whiplash. “I wonder if you could give us some privacy? I’m afraid I have to have a very important work-related discussion with him.”

To Arthur’s shock, Alfred’s father actually looks sad. He pushes to his feet, picks up his empty glass, and walks slowly into the kitchen. After a moment, there’s the muffled sob of, “But it’s Christmas!” and the father’s comforting rumble: “He might not be goin’, we don’t know yet.”

Alfred looks so pissed.

Now the woman—dressed ridiculously for the weather in a conservative black-and-grey business skirt—turns to Arthur. He has gone exactly five months without being stared down by a woman, and he doesn’t know why it crawls under his skin so much worse than it would if it were a man, but he doesn’t like it. But something he doesn’t like even more is the fact that she stands beside Alfred, with a manicured hand on his shoulder, like she is the owner and he is the pretty piece of merchandise. Bought and sold, before Arthur even came into the picture.

“You, too, miss,” says the woman. Not intentionally insidious, but insidious nonetheless. “I’ll have to ask you to step out.”

Pissed is an understatement of what Arthur looks like.

“Arthur—” starts Alfred, eyes widening.

“Yes,” says Arthur, standing up bolt-straight and cranking Esteemed Englishman to eleven. Each word has enough emphasis to bruise the person listening. “My name is Mr. Arthur Kirkland.”

“Oh,” says the woman, brow furrowing slightly. Not apologetic. Just confused. Inconvenienced. “I thought—”

“Yes,” snaps Arthur, sharp and haught. This is not Esteemed Englishman. This is a polished, bitter monster that picks Esteemed Englishmen out of its fangs. “You thought incorrectly.”

She looks him up and down— _I will strangle you_ —and her lip curls slightly, but not in a smile. “I see. Well. Please leave the room, _Mr._ Kirkland. Alfred and I have delicate information to discuss.”

Arthur looks at the increasingly small amount of space between her and Alfred, then turns to his lover. He feels like a child appealing to a parent. _Please let me say and listen to the grown-ups speak._

Alfred’s mouth twists, uncertain. “Arthur’s my partner, ma’am. We work together on everything.”

Something sparks in her eyes, something that informs the viewer they have made a potentially grave error and that the next few moments will determine whether or not it was grave. “Agent Jones. I am the director of the agency in which you are a very talented but very small cog. I control what happens to you. You signed a contract; you will work for the agency for the predetermined years. Do _not_ backtalk me.”

Alfred’s eyes look their bluest when he’s apologizing. The eyes of a puppy dog who chewed your shoes and implores you to forgive. Arthur gives him the barest smile, with his gaze more than his mouth, before turning neatly on his heel and retreating upstairs, because he’ll be damned if he’s going to spend any amount of time alone with the Jones parents.

 

While Alfred and his wonderful director discuss their tender information, Arthur investigates Alfred’s bedroom. He didn’t do a very good inventory of the place during their tryst—being, understandably, distracted at the time—so now he makes up for it. He does his best to ignore how irritated he is about the woman downstairs and instead focuses on the fact that this is a way to get to know Alfred that’s almost more intimate that talking or touching. He’s never actually been in someone else’s bedroom, he realizes. He shared the one with Francis— _don’t think about that_ —and the shack was barely one room at all, let alone one big enough for a bed.

Alfred’s bedroom has space for a bed, a dresser, and a wooden chest. It’s old instinct that has Arthur lifting the lid of the chest and peering inside. Inside, to his surprise, is a collection of toys. Knitted teddy bears, whittled boats and planes, a family of hand-painted ducks, a baseball glove, several balls, and a bat that only just fits diagonally in the chest. He considers running light fingertips over these objects, but decides to close the chest without touching any of them. Alfred might one day make him touchy-feely, but not yet. Arthur stands up and walks slowly round the room, gazing at the framed photographs hanging on his wall, all of them black and white, faded to sepia. A tiny Alfred toddling next to a chicken coop, chubby fists overflowing with feed. A bit older, legs barely long enough to straddle a young Appaloosa’s spotted back. Older still, dusty hair falling in his eyes, holding a collie pup in either arm, two soft tongues kissing his cheeks. Then an Alfred he recognizes, posing with squared shoulders in a police uniform. In every picture, he wears the same expression: an easy, wide grin. The American boy. _My American boy,_ thinks Arthur, testing the waters of endearment. He finds them less like water and more like honey: warm and welcoming, but a bit too sticky-sweet for his tastes.

Of course, Arthur gives a moment’s thought to his childhood self, but he doesn’t bother placing that stranger into the photographs. Growing up on this ranch would have indeed been a wonderful thing, but not for someone in Arthur’s situation. If he had been happy to be the girl he once was, then he would have been happy, probably. He’d know how to sew and card wool and bake pies and shuck corn. He’d be courted by some polite, wholesome southern gentleman, they’d have two or three children, and he’d go to church every Sunday and drink disgusting sweet tea and he’d grow old and die and be buried beside his husband. Arthur realizes with a start that he’s never imagined himself as an old man, as old at all. He wonders what will happen to his body as he gets older, wrinkled. He hates it now with the aesthetic advantage of youth; how will he feel in thirty years? Fifty?

(In fifteen years, he will begin taking testosterone tablets. Five years later, he will undergo a double mastectomy. So, in thirty years, he will feel quite happy. In fifty years he will be in the hospital for heart failure caused by a joint effort between testosterone and nicotine. So he won’t feel the best then. But he will evade death for another twenty-four years, at which point he and the Reaper will greet each other with open arms.)

“Hey.”

Arthur turns. Alfred stands in the doorway, no hint of a smile now, with a certain set to his brow that Arthur hasn’t seen since the night of the Russian bust. Arthur is reminded of Alfred’s broad shoulders in front of him, shielding, and he is at once incredibly tempted to wrap his arms around Alfred. _Not touchy-feely, eh?_ asks a wry, logical voice in his head. _Only under the right circumstance,_ he allows. Like when recalling the instance wherein his lover would have taken a bullet for him. Arthur’s no expert in romance, but that’s pretty bloody romantic in his book.

“So, bad news. Or maybe good news. I guess it depends.” Alfred lifts his arms, lacing his hands behind his neck, and sighs. “I have to go to Nashville. They have word that a mobster from Chicago is coming here to expand his bootleggin’ business, and they want me to get him.”

Something like excitement unfurls in Arthur’s chest. “And you can’t say no?”

“Ugh, I tried to.” He shakes his head. Such intense loathing looks wrong in those bright blue eyes. “I can’t go against the contract. I don’t even wanna get _into_ that lecture. Easier to just go along with it. Once the contract runs out, I’ll be leavin’ the agency.” He drops his arms. “I wanted this to be a nice Christmas with the four of us, and now I gotta go to the city. I was happy to be _out_ of a city for five minutes.”

It shouldn’t be possible to get more silent, but Arthur does. He knows he shouldn’t feel offended that Alfred doesn’t like living in Belfaux, but it still cuts into his heart a little. And he knows Alfred doesn’t _hate_ the city, but just the fact that Alfred doesn’t love it as much as Arthur does—as much as Francis did—is a little dip into the earth between them. It won’t become a chasm. It won’t even become a ditch. But that unchangeable difference between them makes Arthur just a little uneasy.

Arthur clears his expression before Alfred can see any of those messy emotions. “Well, we can have a belated Christmas dinner.”

Alfred presses his lips together, then nods. “I guess that’s what it’ll be. I’m leavin’ tonight. The arrest is supposed to happen tomorrow night. They’re havin’ a party for Christmas Eve.”

Arthur inclines his head. He won’t suggest it. He won’t even hint at it.

Alfred glances up. “Did you wanna come?”

“Thank God, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, darlin’.”

 

After their (brief) time in New York, Arthur is prepared for Nashville. It isn’t nearly as vast, or as loud, but there are a lot more horses and guitars. And oxen, bizarrely, hauling loads of wood and large wooden crates of mysterious content. Alfred and Arthur travel in a car this time, driven by some agent Arthur already forgets the name of with the evil director riding shotgun. Her nails click rhythmically against the window. Arthur is glad he isn’t sitting directly behind her, or his hands might accidentally wind up round her neck.

“The hard part will be getting in,” the director is saying. “The place is hidden underneath the General Store. The owner decides if you get in or not, once you tell him the passphrase. Repeat it to me.”

“Just back from the trenches,” says Alfred, admirably less monotone than Arthur would have after being asked for the tenth time.

“Good. With your looks, it shouldn’t be an issue, but the place is infamous for being picky about its patrons. One of the best speakeasies in Tennessee, or so they say. They can afford to be particular. And tonight, with Allan in there, they’ll be extra careful about security.”

Alfred just nods, looking out the window. Arthur knows he’s thinking about his parents, left to eat alone on Christmas Eve. It’s a shame, but Arthur’s had his hopes dashed more than Alfred has, so he’s more immune to such things. He follows Alfred’s gaze, enjoys the shop windows bright with red and green, threads of popcorn strung round tiny fir trees. Not nearly as vibrant as Belfaux, but still charming.

The unnamed agent parks the car behind the General Store. Outwardly, this place seems even more old-fashioned than the rest of the city. There’s even a place to hitch horses, and a small water trough now full of snow.

Alfred glances down at himself. “How do I look?”

He’s wearing a blue pinstripe suit that can’t begin to compare to his eyes, a matching hat at a jaunty angle, and pointy brown shoes that are useless for everything except dancing, and only if the dancing can be done to jazz music. He looks more impish than anything. He looks like he should be singing on top of a table, taunting the old and dull into life-ruining fun.

“Well, your suit is American cut,” says Arthur. “So I won’t comment.”

Alfred smiles. He’s tucked in the edges of his twang now. “I don’t know if the agency has the budget for British suits.”

“We do,” snaps the director. “What we don’t have is time to tailor them to fit.”

Arthur exercises Herculean self-control to refrain from commenting about American waistlines. At least effeminate bodies fit into tapered waists. Ah, at long last, a highlight to this bloody body he’s stuck in.

The director turns around in her seat to fix her steely gaze on Alfred. “Go in. Scope it out. See if you can get any information out of him. Then come back, and we’ll move in.”

Alfred nods, more serious than Arthur really likes seeing him. “Yes, ma’am.”

He spares a glance for Arthur. If not for the audience, Arthur would have kissed him. Instead, he just gives a small nod. Alfred’s lip quirks, and then he’s gone, closing the car door in his wake and disappearing around to the front of the store.

Now they sit in silence. Arthur wonders if this is more or less awkward than it would have been staying with Alfred’s parents.

“So. Mr. Kirkland.” The director, still twisted in her seat, looks down her nose at Arthur. “Are you originally from England?”

“No. From Belfaux.”

“I’ve never been. I understand there’s a lot of crime there.”

“Yes. There is. But we’re working on it.” Arthur still isn’t quite used to the idea, but he’s working on that, too.

“I understand the majority of criminals there are English.”

Arthur knows he shouldn’t be offended, since he was a criminal, but he also knows the director probably isn’t being suspicious, she’s just saying this to insult him. He scowls at her. “And I understand the majority of criminals in America are American. Apparently when people live in a place, they commit crimes there. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

The nameless agent in the driver’s seat snorts.

The director glares at them both and turns back around in her seat. “You wouldn’t la—” Her sharp words drop off, and Arthur scoots a bit to look out the windscreen. Alfred is striding through the snow, back to the car; he brings a gust of chill, smoke-scented air when he joins Arthur in the backseat.

“He wouldn’t let me in,” he says, bending to brush snow off his ankles. “He said Jones only wants girls down there.”

“Jones?” echoes Arthur.

“Yep, Allan Jones.” Alfred gives him a brief smile. “No relation.”

“Damn it,” says the director, looking between the agent in the driver’s seat and Alfred. “If you can’t get in, I don’t know who else to call.”

“We don’t have any female agents in the area?”

“None that aren’t working on their own cases.”

“Well . . . what about you, ma’am?”

“Absolutely not. I did my time in the field.”

“Sorry, I was just—”

“I’ll do it.”

All three heads swivel to look at Arthur. He glances at the pocket watch he’d been fiddling with, then snaps it shut and puts it back into his waistcoat. His gaze, caught between bright determination and dark resignation, meets all of theirs, unabashed. “I’m a—” His teeth nearly clamp shut on his tongue, so resolute his mouth’s refusal to finish the sentence untruthfully. He clears his throat, begins again: “My body is female. I’ll give him a girl.”

The nameless agent looks puzzled, the director looks smug, and Alfred looks concerned. He risks a touch to Arthur’s wrist, eyes searching his face. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

“Well, then, it’s good you don’t have to ask.” Arthur folds up his nerves and negative feelings until they’re a wee bulging parcel of spikes and parasites that he slips through the rusty slot of a door in the furthest back alley of his mind, to be processed at a later date. “I’ll go in, meet your man, see what he has to say. But I’ll need a dress.” He glances at the director, one eyebrow raised. “And nicer lipstick than yours.”

 

 

 

_To Be Concluded . . ._


	19. The Dreaming Dutchman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's too hot to get out of my chair, so this is all the color I could wring out of my soul today. Canadians are not designed for summer. Ah well, lads! When life gives you lemons, make lemonade and give it to people for free on the internet :P

**_1 9 2 7_ **

Moving in together has been a learning experience for both Mathieu and Abel. Most of their discoveries have been positive. Abel learns how much homier his little flat becomes when Mathieu finds knickknacks for it—a set of four plates that hang on the wall, charmingly painted to depict each season—and cleans the place up. The flat takes on a pleasant scent of lemon cleaner and potpourri. Neither Mathieu nor Abel is a chef, but Abel is industrious and a master of following instructions; if Mathieu can bring him ingredients and a recipe, he can produce a meal. A treasured serendipity: washing dishes together, Mathieu’s perpetually cold hands submerged in warm water, Abel struggling to negotiate his towel-covered hand with the interior of drinking glasses, neither needed to speak. Mathieu learned very quickly that silence is not always awkward, something to correct. Abel speaks in silences. Mathieu learns to listen. Abel wastes nothing, not even words. He doesn’t complain when Mathieu used cleaner and sponges rather than vinegar and old newspaper. Mathieu doesn’t complain when his chatter about the day’s events is met only with a calm stare, perhaps an inclined head. Mathieu overcompensates, Abel understates. Slowly but surely, they find a happy medium.

The biggest—and, perhaps, only—downside to living with Abel is the nighttime. And even that is unfair. Most nights are fine. Though Mathieu doesn’t notice the pattern at first, this is the truth: when there are thunderstorms at night, Abel has nightmares. Well, not exactly nightmares.

Just one.

 

It’s been raining all day, but the storm starts as they’re putting dishes away after supper. Abel goes still, turning toward the window, listening to the thunder rolling. It’s far off right now; Mathieu prays it will go in the opposite direction.

“Does it still keep Peter awake?” asks Abel, closing the cabinet.

Mathieu shakes his head. “Tino tells me he’s been sleeping through every night this month. I think he just wanted snuggles, personally. Just pretending to be afraid.”

Abel is like Gilbert; both ex-gangsters—police officers, now—always look fond when they talk about the boy. Mathieu knows there’s a story in there somewhere, but he hasn’t asked, nor has anyone volunteered information. He wonders how well he’ll have to know them all before he becomes privy to it. Then again, perhaps he never will, being so close with Tino and Berwald and Peter himself. So far, his theory centers around Arthur Kirkland, because every evening spent with Abel’s friends has entailed cryptic conversations with Arthur followed by a speedy retreat if Peter is mentioned. Perhaps Arthur got one of the prostitutes at St. Raphaela’s pregnant, Mathieu thinks. _That could be it._

Another learning experience that had come with the courtship: having friends, through Abel. For the longest time, Mathieu had no true friends in the city. Tino and Berwald love him, that’s obvious, but they’re not what he would call companions. Not people he would lounge around with, laughing and drinking, uncensored. But Gilbert and Ludwig, Feliciano and Lovino, Antonio and Arthur—frightening as they may have seemed at first, Mathieu is delighted to have befriended them. Not to mention Alfred, who smoothed the transition for everyone: from cons to keepers of peace. He’s always hugging Mathieu or throwing an arm around his shoulders or creating inside jokes for the pair of them. Mathieu has a correct feeling it’s because he’s shy that Alfred plays the friendly puppy around him, but he’s still grateful.

“Something common in only children,” says Abel in that thoughtful way of his.

“Acting for attention?”

“Loneliness.”

Mathieu, an only child himself, stands in reflective silence. Outside, the thunder growls again, a hunter inching closer to its prey. Abel glances out the window, brow lowering on hard-to-read eyes. Mathieu threads their fingers. “Shall we listen to a play?”

 

 _“Oh, mon dieu,”_ Mathieu gasps against Abel’s hair. They don’t make love every night—to Mathieu’s pleasant surprise, Abel is not inclined toward carnal urges—and when they do, Abel is very focused on giving Mathieu pleasure. Mathieu had fantasized in the early days of their relationship that Abel would release all his stoic, silent composure into an outpouring of beastly, ruthlessly rough sex. It was a scenario he’d played out several times in his head, and though it was arousing (in a slightly terrifying way) Mathieu prefers the reality.

Abel grips Mathieu’s hips, helping him bounce on his lap. Rarely do they fuck in a position that doesn’t let Mathieu control the tempo. Abel is not exactly the submissive partner, but he wants Mathieu to enjoy himself. Yes, the motion of his tight warmth along Abel’s length does feel pleasurable, stimulating, _fine_ —but that’s all it is. Just something that’s happening. Abel doesn’t understand why it’s so wonderful to Mathieu that the other man tips his head back and cries out to the ceiling, but he won’t do anything to take away from that.

(Neither Abel nor Arthur have words for what they are, but they are still there. Nameless, but valid nonetheless.)

Mathieu wraps his arms around Abel’s shoulders, shuddering through a breathless moan. Abel feels Mathieu’s muscles clenching, feels the ripple within, and reaches between them to stroke forth a spatter of seed. Almost too late, Abel remembers to give a low groan. Mathieu slumps against him, sated, and Abel gently lowers him to the mattress, disengages from him, and does away with the condom before Mathieu can notice how empty it is.

Then they lie in bed together, bedroom lit by twin lamps on either side of the bed. Mathieu often reads a chapter of a book before bed, if Abel isn’t in desperate need of sleep. Tonight, with thunder growling and growing ever closer, there is little chance of peaceful slumber. Mathieu rests his head on Abel’s chest and opens his book.

“Are you reading along?” murmurs Mathieu.

“No,” mumbles Abel. He speaks French—coarsely, _like a peasant,_ as Francis would say—but he doesn’t read it.

“Okay.” Mathieu turns the page. The novel is a romance, as they all are, and the love interest is described with a lush field of golden hair on his chest. Mathieu turns his head to rest his cheek against Abel’s pectoral. Not bare, but not what Mathieu would call a field, either. He recalls a long-ago conversation started by himself asking if Abel would like him to be clean-shaven. The Dutchman had seemed confused. _That is up to you._ Mathieu had nodded, having expected such an answer. What he didn’t expect was Abel leaning out of the bathroom the following morning, hair still mussed from the pillow, asking: _Do you want me to shave?_ Mathieu had taken in the sharp lines of his uncovered waist, the subtle flex of his arm braced against the door frame, the dark blond stubble that had grown along his jaw overnight. _That is up to you. But you look very handsome like that._ So now Abel keeps a layer of scruff at all times, but he religiously trims it with tiny scissors to keep from seeming unkempt.

Thunder rolls, then gives its first real crash; the rain hurls itself at the windows, the walls, the roof. Mathieu feels Abel tense, feels his breath hitch, hears his heart racing. The storm will have no mercy on Abel tonight. Mathieu puts down his book and shifts so he can hold Abel; after a brief pause, Abel’s arms wrap around Mathieu in kind.

“Tell me something about you that no one else knows,” says Mathieu, to distract them both from the horror that will surely come later. Abel could probably stay awake all night without too much effort, but after working today and needing to work tomorrow it isn’t a good idea.

Abel is silent for so long Mathieu would think he’d fallen asleep already if not for the stiff alertness of his body. “. . . I had a brother.”

Mathieu is tempted to sit up and look at Abel, but he knows his face isn’t very expressive of his feelings even when he isn’t trying to hide things. “What happened to him?”

Another long pause. “He was too bold. He was young, too young for the things we were doing. We were both too headstrong. We thought we were invincible.”

Mathieu knows Abel has been involved with gang activity in some capacity since he was old enough to aim a gun. He knows, too, that the calm and calculating man he loves was not always so. It’s strange and yet sort of exhilarating to imagine a younger Abel, lanky and wild-eyed, made savage by the need to survive and the will to come out on top.

“My brother and I made too many enemies. We thought we could make it, just the two of us.” The tremor of a slight shrug. “We were wrong.”

Mathieu can hear a hint of grief in Abel’s voice and decides to ask about his brother’s fate on a different day; Abel already has the storm to worry about, after all. Instead, Mathieu asks, “How did you join the Nachtadlers?”

“Gilbert found me, collapsed near the wharf. I was still bruised and bleeding, and he asked me what happened. I told him about my brother, about the other gangs. He told me that he’d been keeping his eye on us. He asked me if I wanted revenge.”

Mathieu imagines Gilbert—red eyes, white hair, black words—offering a hand, a deal with the Belfaux devil. Mathieu shivers. He knows how kind Gilbert is, but it isn’t difficult to picture him being cruel.

“And you worked your way up to second-in-command?” asks Mathieu.

Abel nods, rests his chin on top of Mathieu’s head. “Gilbert became my brother, too.”

Mathieu thinks about Gilbert and Ludwig, Feliciano and Lovino. Brothers. What must it be like, to know someone who shares your blood—or your tattoo, in Abel and Gilbert’s case—will always have your back, always defend you, always avenge you? He wonders if anyone will become that close to him. Alfred seems the best candidate for a brotherly friendship, but how to propose such a thing? He’ll just have to wait and see if it develops naturally. _I won’t hold my breath, but I’ll cross my fingers._

“Is he who you love the most?” Mathieu finds himself whispering.

The longest pause of all, and then a startlingly warm, succinct response: “He was.”

 

Eventually, Mathieu runs out of things to say. No one can talk forever, not even Feliciano and Arthur. Neither of them—Abel and Mathieu, that is—want to pull an all-nighter, nor do they wish to suffer the side effects tomorrow. So they blow out the lamps and spoon beneath the blankets, watching lightning flash, haunting the bedroom with sickly, silvery light. Then the thunder comes, crashing like a bomb, or like a flurry of gunfire.

 _I’m sorry, Abel,_ Mathieu thinks.

Then he falls asleep.

 

The thing about dreams, for Abel, is that they’re almost always lucid—to a point. He is in control of his actions, but nothing else. All of it feels far too real. He always remembers them, too; in fact, he often wakes up thinking he is still in the dream.

This is where nightmares become dangerous.

His dream begins calmly. He’s on the wharf, and though waves surge disconcertingly high against the planks, this is his second home. He doesn’t fear it. Here is Gilbert, here is safety.

It starts to rain. Water drips into his mouth, down his collar. It’s frigid. All at once, his heart is racing. Something is wrong.

He turns around, and now he is fenced in by high stone walls. Barbed wire. Grass and gravel. This is the courtyard of L’ivoire Prison. Broad figures stalk toward him, shivs in hand, glinting like jagged teeth.

Somewhere, guns are going off. Men are roaring.

He tries to fight, but they’re heavier and stronger. They tear up his sleeve. There is his mark, the black eagle. On the streets, it’s a ward, the markings of a poisonous creature: _Do not touch me, or you will be hurt._ But here, behind bars, he is a wolf without his pack.

As they said to Gilbert when they cornered him, his first time in prison: _Lookie here, lads. The eagle’s wings is clipped. Poor little birdy. Can’t fly away now._

They force Abel down, pin him with hateful might, and rip his shirt off of his body. If there are guards, they don’t care. The demons carve Abel’s back, leaving ugly imitations of their gang symbols in his flesh. An upside-down cross, a horseshoe with an X in the half-loop. Three skulls. And, worst of all, their initials. Marking him as their property.

The guns have reached the point of deafening outrage. The rain floods the island. His brother dies, and dies, and dies.

They leave him, water and blood pooling around him, trembling with agony and fury. He can’t fight them now. He can’t get revenge just yet. But he will.

His new brother will see to that.

 

Mathieu does not awaken to the gentle light of dawn. He wakes to Abel’s hands on his throat.

“Abel,” he gasps, then whimpers again: “Abel. It’s me, Mathieu. It’s me.”

He has learned that shouting only makes it worse.

Abel’s grip, which had barely been tight enough to bruise, loosens, then vanishes entirely. Abel rolls off of Mathieu, sits at the edge of the bed.

Mathieu takes a moment to wake up, to catch his breath. Then he sits up, fumbles in a bedside drawer, and lights the lamp. Abel has his head in his hands. The scars on his back are old, fading, but the half-light turns them into ghastly furrows that glisten with cold sweat. He might wear a constable uniform over it now, but he is forever marked by the worst of the world he left behind.

“It’s okay,” says Mathieu softly. “You didn’t hurt me. I know you wouldn’t.”

Abel stays silent, motionless. When the lightning flashes again, he doesn’t jerk, but Mathieu watches the muscles of his back stiffen, dread shivering down his spine. And when the thunder roars, Abel stands up, saying only, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Mathieu is left alone in their bed. _Even when I have someone, I’m alone._ He lets the thunder shatter that thought. He is not alone. He is loved. And so is Abel. He thought maybe a loving presence beside the Dutchman would help with the nightmares, but that is an unrealistic fancy. Some things just can’t be fixed, and that’s okay. Mathieu can’t protect Abel from the demons of a dark past, but he can love him and grow old with him and make him pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast.

The sun rarely comes out in Belfaux, but that doesn’t mean the future can’t be bright.


	20. Agent Kirkland's Debut - Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having people refer to Arthur as "she" genuinely made me feel slimy when I wrote this. Too close to home o.e
> 
> Oh! If you have any lingering ideas for one-shots (things you'd like to see fleshed out, backstory, smut, whatever :P) do lemme know! I know I've got this set to 22 chapters, but that's just because I have two more solid ideas. I don't want to write this AU into the ground, but I also don't want to leave anything out that people really wanna see. So if there's something like that on your mind, don't be afraid to shout! xo

**_1 9 2 7_ **

 

_This was such a bad idea._

Arthur stands in the changing room of a boutique just down the street from the General Store, looking at himself in the mirror. He’s in the most revealing dress on offer, which means both scandalous shoulders are out and his breasts are free to sway as they will beneath the cotton. It’s a dark, sparsely patterned green, but you can still notice the poke of his nipples. Feeling them rubbing against the material is so foreign, he shivers. All of this is wrong. He shouldn’t be unbound with his shoulders and legs uncovered and yet still be considered dressed. His toes, squeezed into petite shoes with heels that make him unsteady on his feet, already ache. His face is not his own, behind the mask of red lips and shadowed eyes and rouged cheeks. Where did those cheekbones come from? Have his calves always been quite so . . . shapely? His hair is the only thing they couldn’t change, and no proper wig can be procured on such short notice. His hair has been swept to one side, pinned up and curled; the rest of the scraggles are hidden by a cloche hat.

“Hello,” he whispers. His voice comes out in its accustomed low tone—low for him, in any case. A low he’s taken five years to perfect, and now he must abandon it. He clears his throat and speaks from the top of his chest rather than the bottom. “Hello. Hello.”

He closes his eyes at the sound, unable to face it. He thought he could do this, but . . . _I am becoming the thing I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be._

“This is a performance,” he says, eyes still closed even though he can’t forget that awful voice is coming from him. “This is a role. This isn’t real.”

Oh, to be home in Belfaux, to be rid of this—

“None of that.” He opens his eyes, lifts his chin. “Get it over with and be done with it.”

He lets himself linger no longer. He steps out of the changing room, and despite his best stoic intentions, a blush still burns up his chest, neck, cheeks when Alfred’s gaze finds him.

Alfred’s jaw slackens, only slightly, as he takes in the abrupt femininity. “You look . . .”

Arthur holds his breath, bracing. If Alfred prefers this version of him—if he says _beautiful_ or _pretty_ or even just _good_ —it will ruin Arthur.

Alfred’s eyes at last meet Arthur’s, and he nods respectfully. “. . . ready.”

A new fear skitters round Arthur’s rib cage. This is happening. _It’s time._

 

“Half an hour,” says the director, twisted round in the passenger seat once again. “You have thirty minutes to get in, get information on his business here and in Chicago, and get out. If you aren’t back, we’re going in. You’re responsible for your own safety.”

Half an hour seems an eternity to spend with a dangerous criminal, until Arthur remembers that the vast majority of his friends are criminals—albeit retired and mostly not-dangerous criminals—and his worry fades. This Allan Jones can’t be _that_ much worse than Gilbert, surely? Both gangsters, both involved in the trading of illegal substances. _They’re practically twins,_ thinks Arthur, still feeling a bit ill about the whole endeavor.

Alfred takes Arthur’s hand (why does it look so dainty now? or, perhaps worse, has it always looked like that?) and presses a gentle kiss to the back. “Good luck, darlin’,” he says in an undertone. “Keep safe.”

Arthur glances at the director and the nameless agent in the driver seat. They’re both watching, judging, jumping to conclusions. He has no interest in justifying himself to them. He’s not sure if crossdressing is illegal in America, but homosexuality is, so he’ll let them think what they want. If he’s a woman to them, so be it. He’ll never see them again, so he couldn’t care less.

He gets out of the car, walks round to the front of the General Store. Snow immediately soaks his feet, and if his nipples were hard before, they’re bloody titanium now. He pulls his fox cape tighter round his shoulders. So bizarre for something like this to be in a hick state in the middle of nowhere. The inside of the store is unremarkable and thoroughly hick: massive sacks of grain, tins full of miscellaneous bits of metal, an array of tools hanging on the walls, a layer of dust over everything. Arthur approaches the shopkeep and notes the same plaid flannel—and the same woodsy scent—Alfred’s father wore. “Hello.”

It comes out a little lower than it should. He hunches a little, looking like a cold lost kitten. A dose of sympathy always distracts from suspicion.

“Evenin’, miss.” The shopkeep leans on the counter. “Where’re you from, now?”

He recalls the Jones parents’ flavor of patriotism. “Belfaux.”

A smile spreads beneath the mustache. “You don’t say. I had you figured to be straight from London. You look like a classy young dame. Sound like it, too.”

 _Oh, for God’s sake. Stop embarrassing yourself, man._ But Arthur just ducks his chin with a shy smile. “Thank you, sir. I’m an actress, and my girlfriends”—there’s a year off his life—“said they heard there was a party here tonight.” He peers to the right, the left, then turns around, knowing full well where the shopkeep’s eyes will go. “But I don’t see any party.”

“Sure, there’s a party,” says the shopkeep, smile widening. “But there’s somethin’ you gotta tell me to find it.”

Arthur feels his minutes ticking away. Time to pack in the ditz routine. “Just back from the trenches.”

He looks a bit surprised and disappointed, but he nods. “Behind here. Mind your feet, Miss.” Behind the counter, he pulls up a trap door that one might think would only lead to a compartment for a lockbox or a small storage area. But no, there are rickety steps leading down into a dark cellar, and Arthur is shocked by the sudden volume, the swell of chatter and music that rears its noisy head. He’s certain if the door was lowered, he would hear the sounds now and know them to be separate from the shouts and car horns and bells and carolers outside. He thanks the shopkeep— _don’t have too much fun, little lady_ —and descends into the dark. He can’t help but jump when the door closes behind him. He’s in.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. It’s not actually as dark as it seemed from the well-lit shop; there are lamps scattered about the place, some unshaded and flickering dangerously close to swirling skirts. It is girls, ladies, female creatures everywhere. He should feel safe because of this: these are bodies like his, after all, bodies without built-in weapons beneath their belts. But blending in with them is the worst sort of backward step. He has never, ever wanted this.

The only man he can see is the band, a group of blokes playing a form of jazz even bouncier than the java of Belfaux. This is swing, and these ladies are swinging, alright. They loop elbows and bend their knees, kick up their feet and tap patterns on the floor. None of it is too complicated, however; this place absolutely reeks of smoke and spirits.

Arthur moves into the dancing ladies, wondering how he should go about finding Allan. Anything obvious would ruin things. He wonders how many minutes he has left, wonders if Allan will give them any information at all once they arrest him. Gilbert wouldn’t. Arthur wouldn’t, either. So the burden is on his bare shoulders.

“Hang on, I gotta get a new one. This one looks about to fuckin’ heave.”

Arthur barely processes the male voice before a young woman stumbles past him, nearly colliding and then toppling to her back on the floor. Nearby ladies go up in laughter, and the one on the floor sits up with a dreamy smile that swiftly fades when she vomits all over her dress.

“Christ.” Now Arthur sees the man who spoke. He wears a doeskin jacket, dark denim trousers, and tinted eyeglasses that reflect the lamps as tiny smudged pinpricks. He takes a cigar out of his mouth—how strange, for a man like this to smoke cigars—and smirks at Arthur. “Hey, little lady. You wanna come sit with me? Winter’s, pardon my French, fuckin’ cold here. My lap’s gotta be warmed up or I’m liable to lose some valuables.” He lowers his glasses to look at Arthur’s body. “And you look like you got good assets for the job, dollface.”

 _Curious sensations,_ thinks Arthur, trying to distance himself from them. He would be attracted to this man normally, but the words would obviously have a negative effect on that arousal. But, as a woman, the thought of any sexual contact sickens him. To be wanted _because_ he’s a woman, that is what makes him want to tear off his skin and disappear forever into a hole in the ground.

 _This is a job,_ he reminds himself firmly. _Just get it over with._

Arthur giggles behind his fingers. “I don’t look like a doll.”

The man’s eyebrows spike. “Oh, she’s a little British dolly.” He grins; his lips move like they’re trying to wrap themselves around Arthur. Everything about him is snake. “Even better.”

Arthur doesn’t like to think why every man in the States either hates him for his accent or wants to fuck him for it. It’s probably leftover xenophobia (not that there’s ever a shortage of that) from the Independence days. Speaking like a well-educated ponce from West End turns him into a symbol. Using his Shore accent would probably have a different effect, but he seriously doubts if anyone in Tennessee could understand a word he said.

The man doesn’t thread their fingers like Alfred would, he just grabs Arthur’s wrist and tugs him over to the semi-enclosed sitting area Arthur failed to notice earlier. There’s already another man and a woman sitting here. The woman is pawing at the man’s chest, but he ignores her, sipping from an opaque glass. Arthur’s man sits across from them, hauling Arthur down on top of him. Already unbalanced on the heels, he winds up sprawled backward over his lap, arms instinctively clinging to his shoulders.

The man laughs, harsh and gritty. He puts his cigar between his teeth and says, “Hang on for dear life, sweet thing!”

Arthur wants to gag, from the pet name and the cigar smoke, but also because through the dress and the denim he can feel the efforts of the previous women pressing firm against his tailbone. He wants to say _what a tasteful establishment this is_ but ditzes aren’t known for sarcasm.

“Let’s get back to it, Allan,” says the other man. He has an unmistakable twang, far different from the choppy way Allan Jones speaks. The girl fiddles with the man’s collar, and he swats her hand away. “Get off. Drink some more. Stop botherin’ me.”

Allan leans forward—Arthur is forced to cling to him so he won’t end up on the floor—and sits back with a bottle in his hand. He takes a small drink, then offers it to Arthur. “Go on, dolly, have a swig.”

Arthur’s stomach turns at just the smell, from the bottle and Allan’s breath. He’s never smelled alcohol like this before. It is a far, far jump from the blackberry wine he once tried, the first and last time he drank.

“Come on,” says Allan, shifting impatiently under Arthur. “This is the good stuff. You don’t pass it up.” He smirks. “You wouldn’t, if you knew what I went through to get here.”

“Maybe she would if she knew where it came from,” says the other man, scratching his beard. It’s a short, trimmed thing. He balances the look of cowboy and criminal rather well. It isn’t difficult to imagine him in a drive-by shooting from the saddle of a stallion.

Allan gives another raspy laugh. “Shut your nasty mouth.” He fits the opening of the bottle between Arthur’s lips. “Don’t make a mess, now, honey. If you get all wet you’ll have to take those clothes off.”

Arthur has no choice. As Allan tips up the bottle, he can only hope for the best and swallow.

Now, Arthur prides himself on being, more or less, a gentleman. But when that demonic brew burns down his throat and sets fire to his guts, to the point where he honestly expects to see it burn right through him and spill foamy intestines all over Allan Jones’s lap, the only thought going through his mind is this:

_Holy fucking shit._

Allan looks at him and laughs for a third time, so hard Arthur can feel the rumble of it through his burning body, like shock waves. He discovers that the point of skin and shadow where Allan’s face goes from handsome, stubbled jawline to handsome, stubbled neck is one of the most beguiling sights he has ever seen. He forgets about needing to gag and instead touches the masculine artwork of Allan’s jaw with awed fingertips.

“Gen-yoo-wine Canadian whiskey,” says Allan, putting on a ridiculous drawl. He winks. “Or so Williams tells me.”

Arthur finds himself looking up at the ceiling, and realizes it’s because he’s slumped down onto his back, lying across Allan’s lap. One of his hands is holding the bottle, the other is holding Arthur’s breast. Allan is talking to the bearded Tennessee man. He has been for some time. Arthur blinks slowly, light smearing over his eyes. Time is ticking. How much is left? He needs to feel alert, but there’s warm jelly in his skull instead of brains. The alcohol has boiled everything important inside him.

“. . . expanding,” Allan is saying. “But I’m not going into Nashville if you can’t keep your bullets outta the guys in Little Rock.”

“Listen to what you’re sayin’ here. You can’t expect me to wipe away bad blood just to make a profit.”

“That’s exactly what I’m expecting you to do. Money’s absorbent, if you get enough of it.”

“Why do you want me to be so friendly? You don’t exactly have an affable reputation.”

“’Cause I don’t want fighting between my associates. One of you fuckers will turn against someone else, or me, and it’ll all go to hell in a handbasket, as you say. Trust me, I’ve been through it before. Don’t you know the East Coast rules? The Italians have it figured out. It’s all about family. Let’s be one big happy one, huh? How ’bout it?”

“. . . And you’ll give me the advance on the first shipment.”

“Yep. And you won’t run off in the night with it.”

“Then it wouldn’t be a happy family anymore.”

“Heh. I like you. You’re smart.”

Arthur decides now is a good time to sit up, mostly because he thinks lying down is not sufficient gravity to keep his supper in his stomach. Allan’s lip curls, his arm slithering around Arthur, hand on his thigh. “Up for air, sweet thing? Want another drink?”

 _NO,_ he thinks. He shakes his head, smiling. “I want to dance with you.”

“Yeah?” Allan’s hips are shifting a little now, grinding subtly, and Arthur feels his body responding to that. _Yesyesyes,_ it says. _No,_ his brain pleads. But that drink makes the body’s argument a whole lot more convincing than it would usually be,

“Dance with me,” he says, close to Allan’s face, lips just brushing that magical jawline. _Prickly._ He gets unsteadily to his feet, but bends at the waist, arching his back a little. He doesn’t know if the things he does for Alfred in private are masculine or feminine. Both, probably. He doesn’t know what line to walk here, if any at all. He feels lost in this cellar, in this country, in his own body. He hopes this will ground him, but he fears it won’t. Still, he’s doing it now. He’s taking Allan’s hand and Allan is standing up and telling the bearded man they’ll celebrate over a bottle later, and then they’re off.

Unfortunately, whatever alcohol had settled when on the couch stirs as they walk to the dancers, and the heels are villains, so Arthur stumbles right into Allan. He laughs, holding Arthur against him while he finds his feet. “What a cute little Christmas present you are.” He raises an arm in the air, and the music falls silent, dancers spinning to a halt slowly with drunken inertia. Allan calls, “Play us something sexy!”

There’s a moment of discussion among the musicians, and then they start to play. This is not valse-musette. This is swing jazz that goes straight to your hips. Arthur is naturally inclined to dance when music sounds this good—you know, in the proper setting, of course—and now genuine Canadian whiskey is clapping its hands in his head and Allan’s fingers know exactly what they’re doing on his waist.

Allan removes his tinted glasses and sets them on top of his head. For the first time, Arthur sees his eyes, and the shocking red of them, like chocolate dipped in blood, steals Arthur’s breath away. Allan’s teeth flash, glinting white in the shadow. “Let’s dance, dollface.”

He has no idea how much time he has left.

But he has time to dance.

He has swung before, with Alfred mostly as the dance hasn’t yet become mainstream in Belfaux. This is faster than they’ve ever done it, Arthur and Allan coming together and apart as if their arms are stretchy, flowing to and fro with rolling hips and kicking ankles, Allan bringing Arthur closer and closer each time. “Look at you go, dolly,” says Allan, with what sounds like genuine pleasure—joyful, not lecherous—in his voice. “You should come back to Chicago with me. You’d be a good time there, too, I bet.”

Under normal circumstance, Arthur would point out that he’s barely spoken to Allan, so he should have no concept of how enjoyable his company is. Then he remembers Allan doesn’t even know Arthur’s name, the real one or something fake. Regardless, Arthur isn’t entertaining any thoughts that serious. Allan sees how wild the bright brass instruments have made him, he lets Arthur spin away, into the center of the dancing ladies. Arthur is dressed in his ridiculous guise, and he cares nothing about the lips and legs surrounding him, but—ah, those trumpets love him! He dances!

He spins!

He sees Alfred coming down the stairs!

Wait—

Allan grabs Arthur from behind, an arm clamped round his neck, the other holding a pistol to Arthur’s temple.

“Alright,” says Allan, loud enough that a headache shoves its way through Arthur’s ear. “Nobody fuckin’ move, or I’m blowing dolly’s pretty face off.”

The drunken dancers go still. The band freezes mid-note. The incoming trio of agents stops in their tracks, bearing looks of frustration and—if you look closely at Alfred’s eyes and the set of his mouth—fear.

Alfred is really getting sick of people pointing guns at Arthur.

(Imagine how Arthur feels about it, Agent Jones.)

“Let’s see here.” Allan has his glasses back on so no one can track his gaze. “Even the coppers don’t work on Christmas, and there’s no way they’d ever hear about this, anyway. So you must be the fancy agents I heard about in Jersey. Apparently they had some pretty boy skulk around undercover for a few months.” He tips his head to one side. “That wouldn’t have been you, would it?”

Alfred’s expression doesn’t change. Seeing him this serious is quite sobering to Arthur, but he feels his terror distantly. He’s been shoving his emotions so far down to numb the dysphoria, now nothing feels real. He’s still floating and spinning on those trumpets. The quiet is so absolute is must be fake.

“Might’ve been,” says Alfred impassively. “The agency is good at getting rid of gangsters. And other assorted vermin.”

Arthur keeps his face a mask of confusion, but he feels that needle prick of irritation. Gilbert would not appreciate the slight sneer at gangsters, and Arthur himself—as part of that assorted vermin—doesn’t really appreciate it, either.

“Well, it looks like I’m in control of this rosy encounter,” says Allan. “Unless you’re into bystander collateral damage. You good guys don’t tend to be, I’ve noticed. So how about you toss me your weapons.”

Alfred and the nameless agent took to the director. There’s no fear around her mouth, just anger. “We don’t make it a habit to negotiate with terrorists.”

Alfred meets Arthur’s gaze. Arthur hesitates. He and Francis—like a dagger to the kidney, after all this thought—had gotten to the point where they could communicate with glances, but that took years. Arthur and Alfred have been training each other, but neither have mastered each other’s arts. Alfred is still working on picking—locks and pockets—and Arthur is learning combat skills, both gun and hand-to-hand. Arthur is far better at shooting than punching (he has good eyes and not-so-good biceps) but he can see what Alfred wants him to do. Arthur is ninety percent sure the American wants him to grab the gun and point it at Allan, while he’s distracted. Perfect opportunity. No one would ever expect it.

And yet.

_Vermin. I was happy to be out of a city. Isn’t that a woman’s job? You should come back to Chicago with me._

Back to the con world. Leaving his family behind? It makes no sense. And yet, _and yet_ , that blackest strand of Arthur’s soul longs for it. That part of him that, no matter what, will always be a bad person. That part of him that came alive when he and Francis Bonnefoy ruled Belfaux, gentleman thieves, clever kings.

Arthur isn’t going to take the gun from Allan, an American Gilbert with a family of his own and a soul no doubt the same shade of obsidian as Arthur’s. But he will make a diversion, because it’s at just that moment that his stomach decides it’s had enough of its moonshine and anxiety cocktail. He retches once, twice, then sicks up on the floor and those damned heels.

Allan steps back, releasing Arthur, to avoid the mess. “Ugh, Christ, dolly—”

The agents move in the blink of an eye. Rushing forward, snatching up their guns. Allan turns and shoots, but he misses the director (shame) and he cannot shoot at three people at once. The nameless agent grabs Allan’s gun arm and Alfred stands out of range, pistol aimed resolutely at Allan’s face. The gangster sees the truth of the situation: he stands unarmed at gunpoint, as does the man he was negotiating with, whom the director has squarely in her sights.

Allan’s disgusted grimace twists into something remarkably scornful. “Read me the rights,” he says, putting his wrists behind his back so he can be cuffed. His deadly red gaze burns through Alfred. “Make Momma proud.”

Alfred doesn’t even blink. He tells Allan what he can do, and Allan tells him where he can go. They take him upstairs, empty the cellar out of ladies, weapons, and illegal substances. Arthur sits on a damp stoop nextdoor, watching the three agents work. He’s still in character, but even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t want to help them. Allan and the bearded con are sitting in the back of the car, watching him. He lets his eyes unfocus, seeing only white and gold and red and green. He could be in Belfaux, dipping honeyed bread into a cup of hot chocolate. Warm lips on his cheek. _Joyeaux Nöel._

The director doesn’t say a word to him, just gets into the car with the other agent and drives away. Allan keeps watching Arthur until they’re out of sight. Arthur kicks himself for feeling disappointed. He’s an Englishman in a dress in Tennessee with bile in his mouth. None of this is right. He shouldn’t bother feeling things about it.

Alfred comes over, sits beside him. “Nobody gave you an actual coat? You must be freezing.” He takes off his own coat, wraps it around Arthur, then rubs warm hands over the gooseflesh on his legs. “Are you feeling okay?”

Arthur shrugs. “He made me drink.”

Now Alfred sits up, looking him closely in the eyes. “Can you focus on things? Do you feel any dizziness or—”

“I wasn’t drugged,” says Arthur. “He gave me some info. No names, though. I couldn’t really ask.”

Alfred nods. “Don’t worry about that. You did a good job.” He puts his arm around Arthur, cuddling him closer. “Even though you probably don’t feel very good right now.”

Arthur sighs, closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar smell of Alfred. “I just want to go home. That’s all.” He clears his throat, lowering his voice for the words, but they just sound daft. “I’m not a fan of your country.”

Alfred is quiet so long Arthur thinks he’s going to say _I don’t think this is gonna work out._ But then Alfred murmurs, “Maybe next year I’ll ask Mattie to come with me.”

It should feel like a heartbreaking replacement, but it just leaves Arthur relieved. Besides, Alfred and Mathieu’s friendship is the most non-threatening thing Arthur can think of. And he can only imagine the delight on Mathieu’s face at all the snow, since he’s at his happiest on cold, cozy nights. Alfred won’t be alone for Christmas, and Arthur won’t have to flounder out of water for two miserable weeks.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Arthur, because he is.

Alfred rubs his back, slowly, up and down. “So am I, darlin’.” He kisses Arthur’s temple, leans their heads together. “You know I love you, right? No matter what.”

Arthur nods. Hearing those words, he can forget that he’s in this terrible dress with this terrible taste in his mouth. He can forget he’ll be hungover tomorrow (which will let him avoid the Jones parents for the better part of the day, so perhaps it’s a good thing). He can forget about the parts of himself that he despises. Alfred will forgive him for his sins, and for that he will always be grateful.

“I love you, too,” says Arthur, and sniffles.

Alfred shifts a little, to look at him. “Are you crying?”

“No. I’m drunk and it’s cold.” He sniffles again. “And I want to kiss you but my mouth is gross, so it’s all just very unfortunate.”

Alfred laughs, complete with dimples and sparkling, crinkle-cornered eyes. He kisses the tip of Arthur’s chilly nose. “Merry Christmas, partner.”

Arthur places a hand over Alfred’s heart, feels the steady beat of it against his palm, and cannot comprehend how he has come to hold it, nor how Alfred has chosen to dirty his pure, strong, clunky, beautiful hands with Arthur’s polluted heart. He smiles at the miracle of it—a happy-sad, bittersweet smile, but still a smile—and says, “Merry Christmas, partner.”

 

 

 

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you're curious, this is what Alfred and Arthur look like swing dancing:  
> https://youtu.be/ehaXJ95n5M4
> 
> And this is what Arthur's solo performance looks like:  
> https://youtu.be/oizYj85IgHA
> 
> The Internet is a beautiful thing :3


	21. Two Red Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a verse that isn't exactly historically accurate, this is the least historically accurate of all. The blackshirts did exist and people did die because of "wage slavery", but the truth beyond that is not presented here.

When Lovino looks back on them, they are most definitely the happy times. The happy times being the fifteen years of his life Before; everything recent is the good-but-not-perfect After. And betwixt are the two years of hell that were wisely colored in red by those savvy crayon-wielding historians. There is no better color in Lovino’s mind to represent those two years. Even the grey of Belfaux cloud and fog, as bleak as it is sometimes, is not as defeating as that brutal crimson. Nothing can fill him with the almighty, sickening, loathsome fury as the memory of those twenty-four bloody months.

He’s free from it, now. He never has to go back, to the time or the place. None of his friends know about it, not even Antonio knows. Only his brother shares the memory, and they never speak of it. To both of them, it is another life. The actions of players with masks like their faces, puppeted on a shadowy stage. But they do remember it, both of them. All of it.

Lovino starts with the happy times.

 

They grew up humbly. Modest, humble, plain—all words the _people of quality_ use to describe poor wretches without saying _poor_ or _wretches._ But the Vargas family were not starving. They never went to bed hungry. But they rarely got toys or new clothing. That was fine; they knew no different. All of their friends in the town were in the same position. The rich children played with rich children, and the poor with the poor. The only time their paths crossed was during the rare heavy rain, when dusty earth became mud and mud became ammunition for juvenile warfare. They started off on opposing sides, but by the end of the battles no one could tell anyone apart and so they would call a truce and head for the creek to be absolved of the stains of war.

Mama and Papa both worked in a factory, standing on an assembly line and performing the same moments—lift, screw, rotate, seal, drop—countless times each and every day. Mama couldn’t even do that much; they had her at the very end, boxing up the wares. Complicated steps confused her poor memory; perhaps that was why she couldn’t figure out how to cook. That duty fell to Grampa, who thought it a farce. _Only my son would marry a woman who can’t boil pasta._ But Mama and Papa never listened. They never stopped touching and kissing each other, or singing and dancing together. They loved each other deeply, and loved their sons deeply, too. Mama taught them how to sing in Spanish, and Papa taught them how to argue in Italian. _No, no, not arguing,_ Grampa said. _Bartering._ _Never take things at face value, boys._ Mama told Lovino: _Always look out for your brother, little lion._ Papa told them both: _You have Vargas blood. Stay together, and you’ll make it through whatever stands in the way._

These were the happy times.

Nothing lasts forever.

 

Papa had been discussing it awhile, but one summer day he decided: It was time for Lovino to go to work in the factory. The boys were in school, but they were fifteen and fourteen and neither was turning out to be a scholar, so it was time they got to work. Feliciano stayed home. He’d have another year, since he was delicate. _He’s more help to me at home,_ Grampa said, winking at Feli. The boy was relieved; he’d had more than one nightmare about the big bad factory.

So the trio packed up their lunches and set off across the town. Even on that day, before everything truly began, Lovino knew something was wrong. Some shops were closed for no reason, even though their keeps were plainly visible inside. Children Lovino knew didn’t wave to him, barely glanced at him. What was this?

The answer came at the factory. All the workers were gathered outside, some bearing signs that complained about lack of pay, lack of time off, and declared them all _wage slaves._ Papa drew close to a mustached man Lovino knew from stories to be his supervisor.

“What’s all this?” asked Papa. “I didn’t think they were serious.”

“Very serious,” replied the supervisor. “The government won’t know us. So we’re making them listen.” He pushed a sign into Lovino’s hand. “Welcome to your first political protest, boy. Hold it high!”

Lovino had no idea what wage slavery was, but he liked the power of all this, the pack mentality of many strong. It made him feel brave, important. He hoisted the sign high as he could, joined in with the chant. _We are men, not machines!_

He didn’t know how long it lasted. In truth, it was less than an hour before the government got word, because the protests had started in bigger cities, too. It didn’t take long before two bay horses came galloping in, hauled to a halt as late as possible so workers had to scatter and cough out kicked up dust. The riders were broad and foreboding in their black military uniforms. These were officers of the militia, and they pierced everyone in the crowd with cold glares, including Lovino.

The supervisor pushed to the front. “We demand more pay! We have no choice but to slave here every day, while the rich children need never lift a finger! Our children will not be so lucky!” He turned to point a blunt finger at Lovino. “He will grow up into slavery, too!”

The officers narrowed their eyes at Lovino. He flushed red and hid his sign behind his back, wishing he could disappear altogether.

“Pass this on to your tyrannical leader,” said the supervisor stoutly. “And tell us what he has to say!”

The officers exchanged a slow, solemn glance. Then one of them calmly took a pistol and shot the man right in the mustache.

Mama screamed. Workers scrambled back, away from the blood. Some retched; a few lost their breakfasts. Lovino could only stare. He’d never seen a dead man before. He’d never seen a man with a bloody, gaping hole in his face before.

The shooter swept his aim all over the gathered workers, sending them into fearful silence. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what our leader has to say.” He was eerily calm; his voice was surprisingly soft, for such a big man. “Speaking out against our president is a capital offense. If you all return to work, no harm will come to you. If you continue this foolishness, you will be shot until dead.” He smiled right at Lovino. “Have a nice day.”

Then he spurred his horse and they were off, short black capes flapping in their wakes.

 

“How was your first day at work?” asked Feliciano.

Lovino looked at him. There was a gaping hole in his little brother’s face.

“It was okay,” replied Lovino.

 

After that, it was downhill so fast they had no time to become accustomed to the state of yesterday, because today was worse. The factory workers were divided: those who supported the government and those who didn’t. Lovino stayed home after a fistfight broke out between the rows. Grampa smacked Papa’s head. _What are you doing, coming home with black eyes!_ It frightened Mama, so she stopped going to work, as well. She cleaned while Grampa cooked, leaving Lovino and Feliciano to wander, searching for childhood companions.

They found a pair of sisters they’d once had a play-pretend wedding ceremony with. Their father owned a bakery, and they were sitting on the stoop, licking icing from cinnamon twists.

“Hello,” called Feliciano, waving brightly as they approached. “How are you two ladies?”

The younger sister lifted a hand, but quickly dropped it when the elder elbowed her. The older sister stood up, chin lifted. “We don’t talk to anarchists.”

Feliciano stared, taken aback, so Lovino stepped forward. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

None of the four knew what the word meant, so the girl just flicked sticky fingers at Lovino. “It means your father keeps speaking against the government and he’s going to get killed.”

The younger sister put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, and the older cried, “Well! It’s true!”

Lovino smacked the cinnamon twist right out of the girl’s hand. “Don’t speak,” he spat. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.”

Both girls gasped at the impropriety, but Lovino ignored them and pulled his brother away. Feliciano didn’t ask about their father, anarchy, or the foul language. He just meekly said, “You should have stolen it, Lovi. Then we could’ve eaten it.”

Lovino considered the sweet, rare—impossible, now that Papa wasn’t being paid—treat of sugar and cinnamon. He pictured the pastry where it lay in the dirt, wasted, another victim of this madness.

“Don’t steal,” he scolded. “Thieves go to hell.”

 

As things worsened—neighbors becoming enemies, family businesses closing down, grown men going missing overnight—Mama became more and more confused. “But what does it mean?” she pleaded every night, when her husband came home increasingly distraught. “Why don’t we work?”

“Because we need more money,” he replied, weary. “It means we’re anarchists. We hate the government. It would be better if we didn’t have one.”

Mama fell silent. She didn’t understand it in Italian or Spanish.

Upstairs, in their bedroom, Lovino and Feliciano exchanged a troubled glance. Feliciano knew it meant bad things were about to happen. Lovino knew it was time to go.

“Leave Italy?” Papa shook his head. “Never! The Vargas blood has always been in Italy. It soaked the ground, in the war! We grew all the grass, and the trees, little lion. We can’t leave them.”

Lovino couldn’t help but notice how red the sclera of his father’s eyes were, or how much spittle was collecting in the corners of his mouth. Personally, Lovino didn’t think having a family full of dead people was something to be proud of, but the upshot was they had to stay put and Lovino wasn’t the one in charge.

For now.

 

There was no declaration of war. In fact, many people denied a war ever began. Riots and squabbles, they called it. These were the rich, the people who clung to whatever government that happened to be in power, because the wise ruler was one who kept friendly with aristocratic coffers. But the underlings, the tiny cogs in the ungrateful machine, were left to sink or swim. Their incentive for paddling along with the lowering wages: their hearts would keep beating.

“Damned blackshirts,” Papa would snarl over his bottle of bitter almond amaretto. He used to drink rich wine with Mama, but now it was almost exclusively liqueur—foul, barely sweetened liqueur, at that. “They shot someone else at the factory today. They followed him home, somebody found him dead in a ditch.”

“Terrible,” said Mama absently, sweeping the same room for the third time that day. Keeping busy was becoming difficult; she was too frightened to leave the house. “Will it end soon?”

Papa looked down into his drink, pensive. He didn’t recognize the murky man reflected. “Something will,” he said darkly. “Something will break.”

The next day, the news was _The blackshirts took a whole crew of men into custody, two towns over. Their families haven’t had any word._

The day after that, Papa didn’t come home.

They sat round the table, food going cold, Mama and Feliciano fretting themselves sick, Grampa giving an endless stream of comfort and excuses. Only Lovino was silent. He knew, and it was a ball of lead in his guts.

“You all stay here,” said Grampa, the next day, as he pulled on a thin coat. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Lovino took in every detail of his grandfather’s face, in case this was the last time he saw the beloved old man. He wouldn’t embarrass himself: no blubbering hugs, no shock at the reality of death during a civil war. _This is it,_ he thought. _I’m the civil part of the civil war._ He had never wanted to grow up into the civil one. He was the little lion, the one with the fire. Feliciano was the sweet, charming one. When had he become so quiet? When had they _both_ become so goddamned quiet?

But Grampa did return, nearly two hours after he left. He bustled through the door and shut it, breathless. Feliciano bounded over to him, grasping for wrinkled hands. “Did you find Papa? Did you?”

Lovino was shocked, absolutely shocked, by the purity of the anger burning through him. He wanted to smack the hope off his little brother’s face. Wanted to grab him, shake him to death. _Don’t you understand? How can you be so blind? What is wrong with you?_

Grampa looked grimly down at Feliciano, then lifted his gaze to Lovino. He shook his head.

Feliciano went totally still, then whirled and bolted. Lovino felt a sob aching in his own throat as he heard Feli run to Mama, then both of them wailing. Lovino fisted his hands at his sides. He would not cry. They’d been warned about this. He would not cry. If the baker’s daughters weren’t crying, he wasn’t crying.

In a lifetime of bitter thoughts, this was the most biting of all: _This is what we wanted, isn’t it? We’re anarchists. Why should we care?_

Grampa had brought more news. Bad, of course; there was no good left in the world. “The militia have been storming homes of anarchists and socialists. They’re going after families, now. The blackshirts will kill us all, if we stay here.”

Such blunt, harsh language falling from Grampa’s lips, such a dark look in those eyes that had always watched over Lovino with twinkling levity. But—Lovino was the man of the house, now. He had to protect the meek and feeble.

“I’ve arranged passage for you and Feli and your mama,” said Grampa. “To a town farther west. You’ll be safer there. But the more you can keep moving, the better.”

Lovino could still hear his mother sobbing, and the soft cooing of his brother, singing to her in Spanish. There was no healing this wound right now. There was only cleaning it, dressing it, biding time, and hoping it didn’t rot.

“I can’t come with you,” continued Grampa, before Lovino could ask. “I can’t run from soldiers. I’d slow you down. Besides, if they find me, they might be satisfied with that and lose interest. They can’t kill everyone in this country.”

Lovino shook his head. They held too much faith in humanity. Grampa believed there were good men in this world. Lovino didn’t know for sure yet, but he had a strong inkling it was bullshit.

“Then we’ll go,” said Lovino at last, once he found his voice. He was nearly trembling with the effort of keeping his face blank, his tone nonchalant. “We’ll get packed and go.”

Grampa nodded, snatching a tear from the corner of his eye. He nodded again, looking away. The floor, the curtains. Anything but the family he would never see again.

There was no big production. They packed—Mama only watched with foggy eyes, clutching one of Papa’s shirts to her chest—and they embraced Grampa as if they were only going to stay at a friend’s house for the night, and they hurried to the rendezvous point where a quartet of wagons was waiting for them. They huddled inside one with three other fractured families. Feliciano tearily made friends—desperate for connection to soothe the gouges torn out of his heart—but Lovino and Mama stared right through the fretting fathers and tearful toddlers. Mama was lost in the past, dreaming of her love, and Lovino gazed blindly into the future. What could become of them when they reached their eastern destination? How would they get food, shelter, work? He stayed up all night while the others slept slumped against each other. He feared for his mind, the mind that Mama and Feliciano relied on for safety. What if he went mad with worry? What, then?

He needn’t have worried.

They never made it further east.

 

It was the next morning, barely fifteen minutes after they set off again, that they heard the hoofbeats. At least five horses; this was not a galloping messenger or a man seeking a doctor. This was a squad of blackshirts, and they were shouting in vicious Italian: _Cease! Unload your wagons!_

Feliciano looked to Lovino, seeking guidance. Lovino started to stand up. The best thing to do, when the enemy was stronger, was to cooperate, and then maybe—

Gunshots. The drivers had opened fire on the soldiers.

Lovino closed his eyes.

It took no time at all before the shouting soldiers hauled the contraband out. There weren’t even orders given; they shot the men in the heads, without hesitation, without giving the children time to hide their eyes. Feliciano clung to Mama, sobbing in horror. Lovino couldn’t even think. It was a difficult thing to do, thinking, when he couldn’t hear anything but gunshots and screaming.

The most decorated soldier present waved his pistol at the gathered survivors. “Take the women south. The children, too.”

The soldiers shoved the women back into one of the wagons. They held their bawling children close and obeyed, fearful. One soldier grabbed Mama’s arm. “Move!” he snapped, yanking her free of Feliciano’s grasp.

“Mama!” he cried, tears brightening those pleading amber eyes. That look hurt Lovino more than anything. The helplessness it made him feel. He was failing his little brother.

“Shut up!” The soldier slapped Feliciano across the face.

Lovino had to hold his brother up, which was just as well; if he’d been free to lunge at the blackshirts, he’d have been shot right there, and Feliciano would’ve had to deal with all of it by himself.

The leader regarded Lovino and Feliciano while the women and children were carted away. His eyes were squinty things, unreadable. He looked down the lonely road, then up, then back to the boys. He said, “Tell me this. Where do your allegiances lie?”

Just like that, Lovino was done. “You want to know? You really want to know? I’m sick and tired of all this. Fascist, anarchist, socialist, futurist—I don’t know what any of it is and I’m fucking sick of it. I don’t fucking care. Do whatever you want, you fucking bastard. You will, anyway. We don’t fucking matter. None of your bullshit matters.”

The soldiers were tense by the end of the tirade, ready to execute the heathen who spoke so adamantly against their cause. The leader didn’t have fury in his eyes, but irritation. The boys would not be soldiers; they were too skinny, anyway. Wastes of time. He parted his lips to give the order.

Feliciano dropped to his knees.

The soldiers all stared at him in surprise. Lovino did, too.

Feliciano said, in an odd, lilting way, “Please, sir. Please.” He went forward on his knees, inch by clumsy inch, until he knelt before the leader. “Please, sir. No disrespect to your glory, sir.” His hands reached out hesitantly, but the watchful leader made no move to stop him, so Feliciano’s pale fingers found purchase on muscular thighs. “Please, sir. We’ve been so lonely, sir. We . . . we wish to serve you, sir.”

For a solid second anything could happen, and nothing did.

And then, somehow, it worked.

The leader unbuttoned his uniform and Feliciano sucked him off, in front of everybody, near dead, bleeding bodies, behind a wagon on this lonely road. Lovino couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Where in hell had his brother learned this, any of this? Neither of them had had a first kiss, let alone . . .

“You.” The nearest soldier pointed his gun at Lovino. “You serving us, too?”

_Survive. Survive, and keep Feli safe._

Lovino got down on his knees. He swallowed his pride, four times over. It tasted of bitter, bitter salt. His throat was so sore, by the end, he could barely speak. The leader ordered them onto the backs of the horses, to ride back to current headquarters. They were headed east, the last slap in the face. The Vargas blood wouldn’t have been safe, anyway. But at least some of it had gone unspilled.

When they finally arrived, it was nighttime. They were locked in a tiny room with a pail of water and a cup, a dinner of crackers and sweaty cheese, and a cot barely big enough for one of them. Lovino gave Feliciano most of the food; his jaw was too weak for chewing, and his stomach was churning with the soldiers’ seed. Squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder on the cot, staring up into the dark, Lovino rasped, “Why?”

His little brother sounded much older in the shapeless void. “Mama taught me. She said we were pretty, so . . . just in case.” A slight shrug. “It saved us.”

Lovino barely breathed. Yes, they had been saved. But was that a good thing? Could they handle the life they’d been thrust into? What if— _Yes,_ he thought. Yes, they could. They could endure it. They had to. One day, it would end, and then . . . well, they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

 

Two years later, they crossed the bridge. It wasn’t a bridge. It was two country borders and a channel, to reach the island.

Two years of being passed from soldier to soldier, bed to bed, night after night after night. It sounded like hell, but the first month was the hardest. Once they learned, it was much easier. Once they knew to prepare themselves beforehand, bite the blankets, clench to speed things up—it became a job. They were the ones in power. Of course, there were the men who fucked them like they could stop anarchy with every thrust, but it was a burden to be shouldered, that’s all. None of the soldiers could last more than half an hour; most of them struggled to last half that time. Typical nights were over before they knew it, and days—aside from some cleaning duties—were their own. They were surprisingly well-fed; the food wasn’t fine dining, but they still never went hungry. Feliciano smiled at them, but Lovino didn’t. _They’re lonely,_ his brother would say in their cot. _They’re not all evil, you know._ Lovino didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, the only person he knew who wasn’t evil was Feliciano. And even then he was still a sinner. So was Lovino. The things they did . . . By the end of those two red years, they knew every trick of the sticky, grunting trade. Inside and out.

It was anticlimactic when the war ended. One hour they were caged, the next they were free men. The government offered them compensation for their _service._ A pittance, really, but enough to carry them to a place Lovino heard anyone could make money, no one was too strange, and the cons and sinners ruled: _Belfaux._ And they’d only been in the island city a week before he heard the rumor floating round the English Shore that a good-looking Spaniard was seeking pretty boys . . .

 

And it’s been almost a decade now. Lovino hasn’t completely stopped whoring, like Feliciano, but he’s definitely slowing down. As much as he loathes what was done to him, he does like the sense of power it gives him, controlling the client’s pleasure, determining if they’ve earned the right to come. He only accepts those types, these days; he leaves the headstrong men to the masochistic angels, and no judgements from him. Some of the nasty things he used to do still have him waking up hard and weeping, but he never relives them. With Antonio, things are pure, or as pure as he’ll ever be again. He’s so sweet, such a pushover. He reminds Lovino of his brother, really. Another ward to take care of, another ray of sunshine to warm his heart. He has new burdens at the church, but they are not without reward. He has never felt such safety as Antonio’s arms encircling him at night. And being loved—ha! He’d never entertained such a fantasy. And yet, here he is. A dream come true.

“Cariño?”

Lovino blinks out of his reverie, turns to the door. Antonio stands in the doorway of his private room— _their_ private room—with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. He holds the glasses against his chest, just in case, and Lovino wonders how long it took him to twine those scarred, shaky fingers around the skinny necks of the glasses. Antonio offers him a bright, hopeful smile. “Thirsty?”

It takes him a moment, but Lovino matches the smile, even if his will never be as hopeful. “Sí.” They’re not perfect, but he’s found his happy times again. “Gracias.”

 

_The End._


	22. Your Dark Around My Wild Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out a lot longer than I thought it would. Oops?
> 
> Shout-out to Hendrik Marsman, for the title of this chapter or one-shot or whatever this is. Also for writing 'without the stupid, no city'. I like that.
> 
> Also x2, shout-out to Mary Shelley for the word "countenance".
> 
> Also The Third, shout-out to Beatrice the Butterscotch Cat, who made typing this very difficult with her constant head-bumping and purr-snuggling. The bane of modern literature, she is.
> 
> Alright, that's all the shout-outs I have for now. Enjoy!

**_1 9 2 9_ **

 

Despite the best intentions of Abel and Mathieu, their relationship is not eased with time. If anything, it’s worsened. The stormy nightmares are definitely worsened; most nights, Abel doesn’t risk what has become a certainty rather than a worst-case scenario. When he doesn’t sleep on the couch, or when a storm comes on in the middle of the night rather than before bed, Mathieu awakens to the commonplace horror of strong, loving hands clamped around his throat, the weight of his lover crushing him, and—worst of all—the blind anger on his face. Eyes half-lidded, completely unfocused, but brow and mouth twisted with hatred. A stranger in a dark room, that’s what Abel becomes on those terrible, stormy nights. At first, when he still held out hope that Abel’s condition would improve with simply love and time, Mathieu thought he could live with the unintentional violence. It’s no one’s fault, after all, and he loves Abel; how could he leave him for something that he can’t help? It would be cruel, and hasn’t Abel faced enough cruelty? But it is so draining for Mathieu, and dangerous besides. But it’s no one’s fault . . . And round and round he goes. From this cycle, he comes up with the aforementioned, weary resignation: _I can live with it._

He is wrong.

Typically, the force Abel puts on Mathieu’s throat is not enough to bruise. It often isn’t even enough to hold Mathieu in place; more than once he’s jerked free of Abel’s grasp and that has been enough to shake his lover from the nightmare. But one night, this night, it isn’t like that. Tonight’s storm is one that has been a long time coming. Every stray cat and dog has sought cover from this one. Belfaux has been watching, and it does not like what it sees.

Mathieu has no idea of the time when he’s drawn from his dream. He forgets it immediately, but it was a lovely dream, and the warmth of the bed is such that if he were not disturbed, he would most definitely slip back into slumber and finish where he left off. But, alas: Abel is on top of him, both hands firmly around Mathieu’s throat. He can’t breathe. He can barely move. And he is so, so sick of it.

He knows, by now, that it is best not to make noise, because that draws more fight from Abel. The best method is to wait it out, speaking soothingly until Abel comes to. But Mathieu is not in the mood. He feels no sympathy tonight, just the bitter fury of the storm that slams water and wind against the windows. _How dare he?_ How dare this man choke him? In his own goddamned bed! How dare he?! Mathieu can be the gentle caretaker no more. He snaps.

Correction: he screams.

_“GET OFF OF ME!”_

Abel jerks at the sound and lunges forward, shoving Mathieu down into the mattress and choking him harder. Fear replaces fury; now it is pure adrenaline. No air. Survival. Mathieu reaches outward, to the side; his hand touches the hardcover book he’d been reading before they went to sleep, resting patiently where he left it on the bedside table. He grabs it, swings his arm and smashes it into Abel’s head. (In retrospect, Mathieu thinks, it’s a good thing he didn’t grab the lamp instead.)

The impact is enough to bring Abel out of the delusion. He blinks through the weak light—so weak, really, calling it light is too generous—and here is the all-too-familiar journey from realization to guilt, in record time. He has no concept that tonight was any different than the usual proceedings—not that this happens every night, of course; our Mathieu would have acted long ago if that were the case—so he stands up, rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.” He starts to turn away, with the unspoken hanging in his wake: _I’ll sleep on the couch._

But it is different. Mathieu is whimpering. Abel freezes, then hurries to light a lamp. His love is sitting up on the bed, a trembling hand on his throat, tears shining on his cheeks. “No.” His voice is a tight rasp; the painful wince just one word draws from him makes true terror split Abel’s heart in two. This cannot be ignored any longer. This could mean serious damage. “I w-want to go to Alfred.”

So, even though it’s the middle of the night, Abel drives Mathieu to Alfred’s flat on the French Shore. The wind blows Abel’s scarf up in his face; he tucks it into his overcoat with one hand and raises the other to knock on the door. Beside him, Mathieu hugs his arms around his little bag of clothes, holding it close to his chest. Neither of them know how long Mathieu will stay here. They just know that tonight, a line has been crossed, and this is at once protection and punishment. Mathieu will be safe, and Abel will be alone.

When Alfred opens his door at half three in the morning, he doesn’t expect to see two of his best friends, dripping and miserable. He’s more taken aback by Abel; seeing the level-headed, unflappable ex-gangster so visibly distraught is downright unnerving. And, naturally, seeing Mathieu in tears calls the innate justice-seeking part of his soul to action.

“Come in,” he says. “Lord, she’s blowin’ a gale tonight. What happened to you two?”

Mathieu immediately steps away from Abel, standing so Alfred is more or less between them. Alfred’s hackles rise as he shifts his gaze to the Dutchman. Friend and coworker, yes, but anyone can become an enemy if the right mistakes are made.

“I had a nightmare,” says Abel, voice even lower than usual. The crash of lightning drowns him out, so he starts again. “I have them a lot, but this was worse. I hurt him without realizing. When I woke up, it was too late. I was choking him.”

Said in Abel’s typical clinical fashion, but still, there’s palpable regret in there. The recital has Mathieu’s shoulders quivering; Alfred is tempted to hug him, but after going through that he’s not so sure it’s a good idea to touch him just yet.

“Alfred? What’s going on?” Here comes Arthur from the bedroom, yawning in his robe. His bleary eyes clear when he sees Mathieu and Abel, and he looks to Alfred, seeking the answer to his question with new urgency.

It hasn’t taken them long to perfect their silent speak; in a look, Alfred communicates _It’s pretty bad, but it’s okay for now, don’t worry, but we’ll have to fix it._ All he has to say aloud is, “Mattie’s stayin’ with us for a while.”

Arthur wipes all hints of concern and confusion from his expression. “Of course.” He offers a hand to Mathieu. “Come, pet, I’ll show you the guestroom.” Mathieu doesn’t take the hand, but he lets Arthur herd him away from the others. Arthur casts a brief glance over his shoulder, and Alfred gives him a little nod, then turns to Abel. “So let me get this straight. You had a nightmare and choked him in your sleep? And then you woke up and came here?”

Abel nods, sorrowful.

“And this happens whenever there’s a storm?”

“It’s usually not this bad,” replies Abel, head drooping in defeat. “It’s . . . It’s getting worse.”

The unspoken: _I don’t know what to do._

Alfred is silent a long moment, mulling it over, the muscles in his jaw working. He’s quite tempted to hit Abel right now, but he knows that won’t solve anything and he’s more upset right now than he will be tomorrow. And besides, by the look and sound of him, Abel would just take it and probably ask for it again, because he deserves it. So Alfred just asks, “Are you alright to go home by yourself?”

Abel’s brow furrows slightly, like he’s surprised to be asked—surprised that Alfred cares about the bad guy’s welfare. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Alfred steps forward; Abel steps back, onto the welcome mat. Alfred grasps the door knob. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

Abel closes his eyes a moment. “I know.” Then he turns and leaves.

Alfred is left standing in the doorway, the wind hurling fat raindrops at him, considering that lack of intent is not the same thing as lack of blame, and for Abel, being out of control of his malicious actions is infinitely worse than being in control of them.

“Alfred,” hisses Arthur behind him, “close the door, before we all catch the plague.”

He closes it, sealing the bad out and the good in. _As if it’s ever that simple._

 

The next morning finds Alfred and Gilbert stepping solemnly into Abel’s flat. The Dutchman gives them only a brief glance of greeting before he returns to carefully hammering a tiny nail into the kitchen door frame. He wears the same wrinkled clothes as the night before, and he hasn’t seen to his face or his hair. All of him is shaky and disheveled, but the flat has never been neater.

“Have you slept?” asks Gilbert.

Abel shakes his head without looking away from his work. Sleep was impossible after what he did to Mathieu, and so he’s been awake since that ungodly hour, cleaning every nook and cranny he can find, dusting and wiping every surface, repairing everything he’s let fall by the wayside. It hasn’t made him feel any better, but it’s given him a use on this planet. If Mathieu ever returns to this place, it’ll be fit to live in, company notwithstanding.

“Abel,” says Gilbert, in a tone that makes his expectation of attentive listening very clear.

Abel stops immediately, turning to face his leader. Ex-leader, technically; Ludwig is the chief of police, not Gilbert. But no one would dare go against Gilbert’s word, least of all Abel.

Gilbert crosses his arms over his chest. Alfred’s expression is more openly concerned, but Gilbert’s feelings are no less strong for being hidden. “How long has this been going on?”

Abel tries to stand with squared shoulders, but it makes him feel hollow. His throat is thick with shame. “Years. Every night there’s thunder, the nightmare comes.”

Gilbert’s eyes narrow, very slightly. “And you never told me. Why?”

Abel’s gaze drops to the shining floor. He can barely speak through the shame now. “You had enough to worry about. You already helped me so much. It . . .” He trails off, unable to go on.

“You idiot.” Gilbert comes closer, clapping a hand on Abel’s shoulder and waiting for pale eyes to find his. “You’re my second, aren’t you? My brother?”

Abel inclines his head. In a world where nothing makes sense, that will always be true.

Gilbert nods. “Good. Then you won’t keep anymore secrets like this from me. I know I haven’t had the best track record with honesty, but—”

Alfred smiles amiably as he puts in, “To be fair, none of us have. It’s kinda in the job description.”

“There you go.” Gilbert gives Abel a chuck under the chin, like he’s a child, but it makes him feel a bit better and lift his head so it serves its purpose. “I’ll stay here with you tonight.”

Alfred steps forward. “I will, too.”

Gilbert glances at the American. “You don’t have to.”

Alfred’s smile doesn’t fade at all, nor does his certainty: if someone needs help, he must give it as best he can. “Sure I do.”

Abel gives them both guilty but appreciative looks. He’s grateful to them, he really is, but he doesn’t want to be. He’s forgotten, in all his years assisting Gilbert and healing his wounded brethren, how to be the center of attention, how to be helped.

As far as Gilbert and Alfred are considered—that’s just too bad.

 

Mathieu has never spent more than ten minutes alone with Arthur. To spend the entire day together, them and only them from morning to night, is a daunting unknown to both men. So it’s a relief when a tap on the door produces a wide-eyed, motherly Tino.

“Gilbert told us what happened,” says Tino as he bustles into the flat, lugging an overstuffed medical bag with him. “Well, he told Elizabeta and she came to us and told us. Oh, are you alright, Mathieu?”

Sitting on the sofa to wait for the kettle to warm, Mathieu smiles lightly at Tino, but even the thought of speaking has pain burning in his throat and the abused muscles of his neck. He opens his mouth and shakes his head, hoping to illustrate this.

Tino joins him on the sofa, setting his bag down between them on the rug. “May I see?”

Mathieu lets him, of course. The nurse’s fingertips gently touch Mathieu’s throat, asking, “Does this hurt? Here? Here?” Then he peers into Mathieu’s mouth, pinning his tongue down with a wee stick. “I know this will hurt, but try to say _ahhh_.”

Mathieu does his best; it comes out as a pitiful rasp, and the pain is the sort that draws all the strength from his body, all the spirit from his soul. Some pain is sharp, gives energy, adrenaline. That pain is usually more dangerous, but Mathieu would prefer it to this.

“I don’t think there’s any internal bleeding,” says Tino, in that kindly, _you poor sweet thing_ tone that melts even the toughest murderers’ hearts at the prison. “You’d be showing signs. But it is definitely inflamed. You aren’t having any trouble breathing?”

Mathieu shakes his head. Just that simple motion has him wincing. _All the simple things we take for granted . . ._

“That’s good, that means your windpipe is fine. But there’s been some damage done to your vocal chords.” He opens his bag, taking out a small tin which he sets on the coffee table. “I was baking anyway, so I made you some of your favorite maple cookies.” Then he takes out a little cloth pouch, which he turns to offer to Arthur, who has been watching from across the room. “Do you know how to make chamomile tea?”

Arthur hurries to accept the pouch. “Ah—”

Tino gives him a string of precise instructions, and by the end of it—after two reminders not to let it sit too long—Mathieu expects Arthur to let them both know what he thinks about a Fin telling an Englishman how to fix a spot of tea. But Arthur says nothing, just retreats to the kitchen and gets to work. There’s no anger about his shoulders that Mathieu can see; perhaps Arthur doesn’t mind Mathieu being here, interrupting his life?

“I’ll give you a morphine tablet,” says Tino, once again reaching into his bag of goodies. “Not too much of this. We don’t want you addicted.”

“No,” agrees Arthur behind them. “They gave me morphine when I was shot. I was a while getting weaned.”

Both sofa sitters turn to look over the back of the sofa, staring at Arthur.

The ex-con blinks, taken aback by their meaningful silence. “I’ll, ah, I’ll see to the tea.” Off he goes.

Tino looks back to Mathieu, eyes so kind. “Will you be alright, staying here? You know you’re always welcome at home.”

Mathieu considers returning to their home—to _his_ home, for the longest time—but he knows how lonely it would be. Sure, the idea of going back to hang out with Hana is nice, but Berwald and Tino will be gone all day to work, and now Peter is old enough to go to school so he won’t be around either. Besides, even once they get home, he can’t speak with them. Spending the day with Arthur—well, at least he has an excuse not to talk.

Mathieu nods. “I’m—” Oh, it almost brings tears to his eyes. _God._ He’s never felt so helpless.

Tino gives him a gentle embrace. “It’s okay, Mathieu. Here.” He takes out a little notebook and a pen, putting them into Mathieu’s hands and squeezing his wee warm fingers around Mathieu’s perpetually cold ones. “Here. Use these. Until your throat is better.”

Mathieu smiles lightly, then takes up the notebook. He writes slow, careful letters. _Will I get better?_

“Of course you will,” says Tino, rubbing Mathieu’s arms.

Mathieu wants to let it comfort him, but he has another question. _Will I talk?_

Tino’s warm smile fades a bit. “Well,” he says slowly, “there’s some damage to your vocal chords, as I said. But whether or not it’s permanent . . .” His smile falls off, but he’s quick to slap it back on as Arthur comes in with their cups of tea. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

 

The rain doesn’t stop throughout the day, and the storm returns in full force as darkness falls. Time for a second round, O Thunder and Wind. _Ding ding._

None of the gents staying in Abel’s flat know how to cook anything substantial, but Alfred has come prepared. He sources an iron fire pit from some unknown locale and fills it with chopped firewood. “You have no idea,” he says, lighting a bundle of kindling and setting the pit ablaze, “how hard it was to find this stuff.”

They’re out on the covered balcony for their little camp out. Gilbert snorts. “I have a pretty good idea of it. There’s not exactly a big camping market in Belfaux.”

“Too bad,” says Alfred. They’re all holding hot dogs over the flames; Gilbert burning his, Abel’s barely cooking, and Alfred’s turning out perfectly after years of practise. “Me and my father used to do this when we were workin’ out on the ranch. Lambin’ season, we’d be out for days at a time. Most ewes give birth near home, but some of ’em have to go far and wide.”

Gilbert arches a pale eyebrow, but when he looks to Abel, the Dutchman is leant forward, utterly invested in the tales of farmland domesticity. So Gilbert asks, “What’s it like to watch a little lamb get born?”

Alfred’s delight spreads a wide grin across his face. “Oh, it’s downright beautiful. That first little _baa_ when they get to their feet. They’re wobbly, at first. And they’re so soft, once mama cleans ’em up. They’re the sweetest little things. You could get the toughest guy in the world lookin’ at a new baby lamb, and he’d just _have_ to hug it. Not even the devil could resist.”

The trio goes silent, all of them thinking of their respective loves. Well, Abel thinks about his sweet little lamb, his soft curls not unlike the fuzz of a baby sheep. Gilbert and Alfred think about how their loves are shapeshifters, at times lambs and others lions, depending on the situation. And Abel does consider that Mathieu has some lion within him, if he can stand to live with Abel. It takes a lot of fight and courage, to put up with something so frightening and loathsome every time the wind blows hard. _Mathieu must be afraid of me,_ thinks Abel, swallowing the shame it brings him. _But he stays._ Until now, now that Abel has driven him away.

Abel looks down at his hot dog, unappetized despite his hunger. He’s been ignoring it, but now that he’s forced into reflection: the fear has been here ever since Mathieu moved in with him, and it’s worsened every time. The fear that he will lose control and really hurt Mathieu. _Not a misplaced fear,_ he thinks grimly.

If hesitation is death, inaction is the killing blow.

Abel’s breaths begin to shake. He has lost control of himself. The worst nightmare of all has come true. He can’t fight the terrible dream. He can’t fight any of it. Just when he realizes his tears are in danger of falling, Gilbert reaches over, clasping his shoulder and squeezing it. Abel looks up. Both of his dining companions are smiling kindly at him.

“We’re gonna help you through it,” says Alfred. “Tonight.”

“Tell us,” says Gilbert. “Tell us what happens to you. What are you trying to fight?”

Abel looks at them both. He knows without a doubt that they trust him, and their presence proves they care about him. Tonight is the night. No more fear. He’s been fighting and losing alone this whole time; perhaps what he needs is some back-up. So, he takes a deep breath.

And he tells them.

 

Arthur and Mathieu are reading together, though Mathieu’s not sure if it counts as _together_ just because they’re in the same room. Mathieu brought his current romance along with him—the one he weaponized the night before—but his eyes keep wandering from Her Grace and her exotic olive-skinned lover to look over at Arthur. Mathieu realizes he’s never actually taken a good look at Arthur; likely because those green eyes are so shrewd they make Mathieu feel out of sorts. Mathieu admires Arthur’s deft fingers, slipping between each page and then slicing neatly across when they need to be turned. Mathieu wonders what Arthur would be doing right now if Alfred were here instead of Mathieu. Perhaps he’d be reading while they cuddle together on this sofa. And from there, he can can’t help but imagine what might happen when bedtime comes, if they’ll kiss and go to the bedroom, and then what? Mathieu gave his virginity to Abel, so he knows nothing else but their lovemaking. He has a feeling that—pardon the pun—it leaves something to be desired.

He gets his notebook and writes _Can I ask you a personal question?_ He looks up, wondering how best to get Arthur’s attention, but the Englishman is already looking over at him. Arthur nods when he reads the note, so Mathieu flips to the next page and writes _Do you and Alfred make love a lot?_

Arthur’s eyes widen a bit. He glances down at his page to mark the number, then sets down his book. “I’m not sure what counts as a lot, these days. We do it most nights. A good amount, I suppose.”

Mathieu nods, flipping to the next page. He considers for a long moment, then asks, with his cheeks turning red, _Does Alfred wear a condom?_

“Yes, we’ve never done it without one,” he replies, unflustered by contraception. “Well.” A slight shrug. “Unless it’s just, you know.”

Mathieu blinks, inquiring.

Arthur starts to speak, stops, then surrenders: “I apologize if this seems patronizing, but I feel like I need to speak cleanly around you.”

Mathieu finds a new page, holds it up. _I feel the same way about you._

Arthur’s eyebrows rise. “Really? How curious. Are you secretly dirty, then?”

Mathieu considers, then gives a _more or less_ combination of shrug and nod.

Arthur chuckles. “Alright, then. We use condoms unless it’s a below-job. Then there’s no need.” Slight pause. “I hate the taste of them.”

_Do you do that a lot?_

“Often, yes. Not every night, but a lot.”

_I’ve never given Abel one._

Arthur does a superb job of cloaking his surprise. “Has he ever asked you to do it?”

Mathieu shakes his head, blush deepening.

Arthur’s brow furrows. “How often do you two have sex?”

Mathieu touches pen to paper, but he doesn’t write anything at first. A droplet of black ink soaks into the paper. There’s nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed of, but he still feels both of those things for the answer he’s about to give. _We haven’t in almost two months._

Arthur doesn’t even try to hide his surprise this time. “Well . . . why not?”

_If I don’t start it, we don’t do it. He never wants to._

Arthur ponders this, peering into the middle distance. “It’s usually me who starts it, but Alfred does sometimes. I’d never really thought about it before. Hm. But, do you _want_ to have sex with Abel?”

Mathieu nods. _I wanted to see how long it would take for him to start it._

“And now you know you might be waiting quite a while.” Arthur pauses. “Well, now things are . . .” He shakes his head a little. “So, what, then? I assume you haven’t spoken to him about it? No. Have you spoken to him about the nightmare issue, either? No? Well, that is a large part of both issues, right there. You need to talk to him. Granted, that’s difficult right now, but still. A good relationship is built on good communication.”

Mathieu hangs his head, tearing up. The cushions shift as Arthur joins him on the sofa, legs folded beneath him. Mathieu is struck by how simultaneously young and old the Englishman seems; even when Arthur puts a gentle arm round Mathieu’s shoulders, it’s with the protective care of a father and the awkward maneuvering of a teenager on his first date. Mathieu leans into him regardless—and goes quite still, abruptly distracted from his woes.

This late in the evening, Arthur’s chest is unbound. Mathieu can feel it, without question. Breasts. Of course, he reasons, it’s not unheard of for men to have them—but a skinny man like Arthur? No. This isn’t normal. Perhaps the ex-con has some sort of condition.

All at once, Mathieu puts it together: small hands, sloped waist, petite body, thin voice. Undeniable breasts, and a feminine jawline Mathieu has envied more than once. Arthur and Alfred might always wear a condom just to save from the mess, but perhaps that’s just an added bonus because the main purpose is to prevent Arthur from getting pregnant? And from the concept of reproduction Mathieu’s mind springs to the biggest mystery in his life surrounding birth; that is, little Peter’s birth. His theory has always involved Arthur and one of the angels, but that’s impossible if Arthur is biologically female . . . so that means Arthur . . .

Mathieu sits in stunned silence for a long while, mind racing. _That’s why Gilbert and Abel are so secretive about it; they’re probably waiting for Arthur’s permission to tell me. Is that what this is, now?_ Has Arthur finally decided to extend a bridge across the chasm he’s been keeping between himself and Mathieu? He looks at the Englishman, searching that hard-to-read (by design) face.

Arthur offers a gentle smile. “I’d like to help you through this. I’d like us to be friends.”

Mathieu nods adamantly—as much as he can, given his neck.

Arthur’s smile brightens. “Good. And . . . now you know about me. And—” He swallows, levity draining. “About Peter.” He gauges Mathieu’s reaction, and when he finds a lack of real astonishment, he smiles, this time with respect. “Ah, you’re one of us, then. I wasn’t sure, at first.”

Mathieu smiles uncertainly back, and Arthur laughs. “Yes, it’s a compliment.” He tilts his head a little. “This is rather dangerous, you know. I shouldn’t have this much control over a conversation. Even as a con man.”

Mathieu nods again, expression grave, and that makes Arthur laugh even harder than before. But, just as swift, his countenance turns solemn. “But you won’t tell Tino and Berwald? I don’t mean to threaten you. I’ve no interest in bargaining or blackmailing you. I just request that you leave the telling up to me.”

Mathieu flips to a new page, writes _My lips are sealed._

Arthur’s own lips quirk, and he holds out a hand into which Mathieu slips the pen. In a slanted, lovely hand, Arthur writes, _Merci beaucoup, mon mignon ami._ Mathieu can’t decide if he’s more surprised by the affection or the fact that Arthur is literate in French. Arthur avoids his eye. “It’s easier to be sentimental in Romance languages. Don’t expect much from me in the way of this guff in English. I’m liable to break out in hives.”

 

By midnight, the storm has whipped itself up into a proper frenzy. Abel fears his external repairs were for naught; he expects no fewer than five shingles to be found strewn along the walkway in the morning. As soon as they ready themselves for bed, Abel’s fear begins to stir. Each light that goes out makes him feel weaker against the storm outside and the darkness it brings with it, both out there and in him.

Once they’re in their sleepwear—or, in other words, sweatpants—Gilbert cracks open a beer and offers them each a bottle.

Alfred is incredulous (Gilbert and Abel both privately think Arthur’s been rubbing off on him—no, not like that). “Beer before bed? Is that a normal German thing?”

Gilbert shrugs. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

Alfred and Abel exchange a glance, then take their bottles. The trio clink the necks together, saying their cheers and sharing a comradely shirtless sip of grain alcohol. Gilbert quirks an eyebrow at Alfred, tipping his head back and continuing to swallow, but they’ve played this game before and the American taps out before he makes a mess of Abel’s nice clean floor. Gilbert relents, smirking. “Gute nacht, Jones.”

“Sleep tight,” says Alfred, flopping onto the sofa. “Don’t go lettin’ any bed bugs bite.”

In the bedroom, Gilbert and Abel climb into bed. Gilbert tries to lighten the mood with a squabble about Abel having too much blanket, but the Dutchman volunteers to sleep on the floor, so Gilbert has to tell him he was only joking. Gilbert blows out his bedside lamp; Abel lies on his side, watching his own lamp flicker, the last light left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for whatever happens.”

No hesitation: “Do your worst, Bruder. You can’t kill me.”

It’s quiet, then Abel says, “Thank you. For everyting you’ve done for me. I don’t know if I’ve ever truly thanked you before.”

“Everyhing you’ve done for me and the gang has thanked me. You’ve repaid me tenfold over the years, Abel. I should be thanking you. This is the least I could do, after what we’ve been through.”

Those words give Abel the strength to lift up on an elbow, reach to snuff out the flame, plunging them into darkness. Somehow, the howling wind seems louder without any visual feedback of the room. They lie there, listening to each other breathing, the pounding rain.

“Tell me,” murmurs Gilbert, “what you want. From life.”

“I want to make Mathieu happy,” replies Abel, because it’s easy to be so heartfelt when he doesn’t have to look anyone in the face. “But I don’t think I can.”

A pause.

“Something tells me you’re not just talking about the nightmares,” remarks Gilbert, low.

“I’m not.”

Another pause.

“You don’t think you can make him happy because you don’t want him. In that way. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Or anyone?”

“Yes.”

Gilbert lets the silence stretch before finally saying, “Well, I think you’d better tell him that. I think he deserves to know, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Abel. “But talking is not my strongest suit.”

“I’m painfully aware of that, my friend,” says Gilbert, laughing, but not unkindly.

Abel waits for him to finish laughing, then says, “I was afraid he would leave me. And then I _made_ him leave me. I’ll be lucky if he comes back.”

“Ja, you will be.” Gilbert’s warm hand finds Abel’s arm. “But he also loves you. So I think lucky is what you are. He’ll come back to talk, at the very least. And you’ll have to talk about this. Do you think you can do it?”

Lightning cracks, and Abel shivers. “If I make it through tonight, I can do it.”

“Well good. We’re getting you through tonight, so that’s a sealed deal.” The mattress shifts as Gilbert settles into his spot. “Now go to sleep, so we can get this party started.”

With those words, said in the ex-gangster’s ever-confident devil-may-care tone, Abel knows he shouldn’t have been frightened. Tonight will be a fight, yes, but what has Gilbert ever loved more than a fight? Abel is in good, capable, mighty hands. Following orders as always, he closes his eyes and gives himself over to exhaustion.

 

“Our island is furious tonight,” says Arthur as he and Mathieu watch lightning flash outside the master bedroom window.

Mathieu’s things are still in the guestroom, but he and Arthur are both in the master bedroom, curled up in striped satin pajamas. There are lamps on the bedside tables, just like in Abel’s flat. Mathieu and Arthur are lying side-by-side without touching, but Mathieu still prefers this to sleeping in a cold guest bed in a room by himself. _If someone saw us, would they think we were together?_ He doubts it. Arthur’s presence and the scent of Alfred on the pillow comfort Mathieu, and comfort is all he needs right now.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept alone.” This statement is totally unconnected to his previous, and Mathieu wonders if Arthur is filling the silence because he’s like Mathieu and instinctively makes noise lest his nerves get the better of him. Arthur sits up to fluff his pillow. “Not that I expect to get much sleep tonight, with the thunder like that. Bloody racket. Do you snore?”

Mathieu shrugs. He has no idea if he snores or not, since no one’s ever told him.

“Alfred claims he doesn’t, but he absolutely does. Right in my bloody ear is his preferred position. He’d sleep right on top of me if he could.”

Mathieu smiles, wondering if this is the stuff Arthur talks about with Feliciano and Lovino or if he’s the only one to hear these intimate details. He wonders, too, if Arthur would so willingly volunteer this information if Mathieu could respond verbally. He suspects he’s like speaking to a dog, but there are much worse things to be than a dog. Little Hana, bless her. He’s going to get a dog someday, he decides right then and there. A big one, to keep him safe and slobber on him and take up the whole bed at night. _Like Alfred,_ says a voice popping into his head out of nowhere, and his throat burns as he wheezes a laugh.

Arthur glances at him, bemused. “What’s funny?”

Mathieu writes _I was thinking about Alfred. He’s wonderful._

It occurs to him only after he writes this that it might seem flirty or worse, and his cheeks go warm, but Arthur’s look is astute and gentle as he replies, “Yes, he is. We’re lucky to have him.”

And that makes Mathieu smile so wide the rain considers letting off entirely, so light and joyous is the smile, but then the storm rages on. It has a job to do, tonight.

 

Wrapped up in sleep like a rabbit in a snare, Abel jerks and shakes, hands fisted, face distorted with torment, a sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin. They’re holding him down, the triad demons, sneering and laughing at him, carving him up. Prison bars stab through the walls, through the floor; barbed wire curls around their feet like a nest of jagged snakes. His brother is dying, being murdered, crying out for him. _Abel! Fight them, Abel! Please!_ He hisses, growls, roars, rising up from the pile of hatred they’ve pinned him beneath. He shoves the men—they have no faces, just teeth—swipes at them, punches them, but they’re stronger than him. They grab him as one, a swarm of hands surrounding him, tackling him to the floor—but there’s no jarring thud, no brutal impact. The floor gives beneath his weight; he bounces right back up and swings blindly, furious with the thunder and the pain on his back, in his heart. _Abel! Fight, Abel! Fight!_

He fights. He rears up like a bear, ripping and tearing; then something grabs him from behind and he falls, crashing down hard this time. He’s at once dreaming and awake, blood and rain soaking him, blankets tangled around his legs, but the fists are the same, pressure and heat. Trauma. He grapples with someone, kneeing them in the ribs and throwing them off him. He’s up, then falling, on his knees, caught up in the thick gauze of the dream. Knuckles glance off his cheekbone; he lunges forward, lashing out wildly. Lightning flashes, and he sees: those three demons, gaping empty mouths, shivs flashing in the silver light, and his brother behind them, hollow cheeks, haunted eyes. _Abel. Please._ They’re surrounding him, strong arms around him like ropes, trying to trap him. He rages with the island. He will not be beaten again. He will not be held down and made someone else’s thing. He owns himself; he is in control. He will come out on top, once and for all.

 _Abel._ Darkness, now. Where is he? He whirls around, or perhaps he only blinks, but regardless: there is his brother. Once a starving, feral teenager just like Abel was—now, a grown man, dressed respectably, though the mauve pinstripe is questionable. His brother smiles at him, blue eyes peaceful, at last. _It’s okay, Abel. You did it. You won._

And then Abel can see, in the terrible lack-of-light of the bedroom. Gilbert and Alfred are holding him, and he has an iron grip on both of them. All of him is hideously tense, a caged animal ready to kill anyone, including itself, to reach freedom. He lets himself go limp, and Gilbert and Alfred lower him onto the bare mattress.

“Turn on the lamp,” says Gilbert.

“You sure?” asks Alfred.

“Do it.”

A match is struck, and then they’re bathed in warm lamplight. Gilbert squints, as does Abel, but then he smiles. “Ah, there he is.” Abel is totally out of breath; Gilbert and Alfred are panting, too. They all look like they’ve been through a trial; Alfred’s lip is even bleeding. Abel’s eyes widen. “Did I do that?”

Alfred nods. “Yep, you got me good a few times. Great aim, for somebody mostly asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no worries. I knew what I signed up for.” The corner of his mouth quirks, with the hint of a dimple. No one has any business being so handsome at this hour. “More or less.”

“How do you feel?” asks Gilbert, stretching his arms over his head with the stiffness of sore muscles.

“Tired. But better.” Abel’s smile comes so gloriously easy. “Much better.”

Gilbert and Alfred both grin. “Good.”

Abel assesses them both with a medical eye. “How do you feel?”

Gilbert rubs his ribs. “Sore, that’s how I fuckin’ feel. If you ever knee me in the gut again, I’ll knee _cap_ you.”

Guilt furrows his brow. “I’m s—”

Gilbert punches his shoulder. “Oh, don’t apologize, I forgive you.” He turns. “You wanna sleep with him the rest of the night, Jones?”

“Actually, I have this back thing—”

Both of Gilbert’s incredulous eyebrows spike toward his hair. “You have a back thing that only lets you sleep on couches?”

Alfred chuckles. “Yeah, it acts up on some beds.”

“You mean to tell me you sleep on the couch in that nice French Shore flat of yours?”

Alfred scratches his jaw, cordial. “Well, sure, if I piss Arthur off enough.”

“Get the hell outta here.”

Alfred obeys, laughing and closing the door behind him.

Abel picks up the sheets, throwing them onto the mattress. “He does have a bad back. He got thrown from a horse when he was teaching Mathieu to ride last Christmas.”

Gilbert straightens the sheets, then the duvet, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell Arthur,” adds Abel.

Gilbert snorts. “I’m sure he already knows. Can’t imagine what their New Years was like.”

A pause, then Abel says, “Probably as exciting as mine.”

Gilbert glances sharply at him and then they both laugh. Gilbert tosses his pillow at him. “Go to sleep. And I mean it this time.”

Abel blows out the lamp, smiling into the darkness. “Yes, sir.”

 

The next afternoon, the rain has stopped but Alfred still wears his hat when he and Abel make the journey back to the French Shore. (Abel never wears a hat because he has yet to find one worthy of the challenge of his hair.) “Knock knock,” says Alfred as he pushes open the door. “We’re home!”

Arthur and Mathieu look up from their kitchen table teatime. Arthur’s faint smile at the sight of Alfred—a symptom of being in love—drops off almost immediately in favor of a concerned frown. “What happened to your face?”

Alfred smiles, even though it hurts his split lip. “Bad dream. But I think it’s all fine and dandy now.”

Arthur seeks his gaze—Mathieu and Abel watch them have a silent conversation—then turns to Mathieu. “Shall we leave you two alone to talk?”

Mathieu’s chin lowers, abruptly shy.

“We can just pop into the bedroom, how’s that?” asks Arthur, warming Alfred with his kindness toward sweet Mattie. “We’ll be right there, if we’re needed.”

Mathieu nods, with a little grateful smile. Alfred and Arthur both smile back before heading into the master bedroom. Mathieu glimpses Alfred’s arm encircling Arthur’s waist, hears a murmur of _Did you miss me, darlin’?_ before the door closes. Mathieu wishes Abel had a pet name like that for him. A brave, new voice speaks up inside him: _Then tell him that._

So he flips to a new page with determination and makes a lit of all the things they need to talk about, big and small. To his surprise, there isn’t even a page’s worth. It felt like an overwhelming amount, when it all swirled around in the constricting silence, but put into words on paper, it’s much easier to face. Mathieu takes a deep breath, looks up at Abel. He’s watching him, standing in a way Mathieu rarely sees: chin lowered slightly, shoulders hunched a bit, weight a tad off-center. Mathieu gestures to a chair across from him, and Abel hurries to obey, sitting down with his hands flat on the tabletop. Mathieu spins the notebook around and slides it across the table so Abel can see it. Abel’s brow lowers slightly as he reads them all.

The first is the nightmares, the second is the lack of sex. The third is the fact that they don’t talk as much as they should. Abel sighs. _Here we go._ Now he has to speak, and not ruin everything. He takes a moment to choose his first few words, and then he starts. He talks. He tells Mathieu the full story of his brother, in detail this time: how their mother was lovely in face but gruel in heart and left them for a rich man in France, how their father was made a ghost by the con world his sons inherited from him, how Abel and Henri got addicted to the thrill of hurting others, how they bit off more than they could chew and Henri was killed in the fight while Abel the Spineless surrendered. Joining the Nachtadlers, learning healing during his time in prison, being repaid for his undying loyalty by moving up to second-in-command. Lying with women and men, but seeing no appeal in either. Feeling love—yes, he feels love, for his family and friends, for his brothers, for Mathieu. “But not lust,” he says. “I don’t know if I have ever felt lust. It’s nothing to do with you. Please don’t take it personally.”

Mathieu nods slowly, pulling his notebook back to himself. _I did, before. But I think I understand now._ A pause. _Do you mind having sex?_

Abel considers this. “Usually I don’t mind. I also wouldn’t mind if I never had it again. But I like that it makes you feel good. That makes it a lot easier.”

_I don’t mind not having it all the time. Do you think once a month? Regular, but not often?_

Abel nods. “If that’s what you wish. Don’t sacrifice for me.”

Mathieu smiles a little. _You’re worth a sacrifice._

Abel meets his gaze with earnest tenderness. “You’re worth a life of sacrifices, liefje.”

Mathieu’s heart swells. _What does that mean?_

Abel rolls the word around on his tongue for a moment. “Sweetheart. Is that alright?”

Mathieu grins, beyond delight, and gets up to hug Abel. He can feel Abel’s surprise, but then those strong arms return the embrace, so incredibly gentle now, as if Mathieu is made of glass, of snow, of something that might shatter or blow away. Mathieu whispers in his ear, “I love you,” and Abel whispers back, “I love you, too,” and gives him the most chaste kiss: no lust, no sensuality at all, just the silken petals of tulips and milky morning sunlight and honey on waffles and love, warm golden unerring love.

“No, I think they’re—yes, see, they’re done talking.”

They pull apart to see Alfred and Arthur coming out of the bedroom, Alfred mouthing _sorry_ while Arthur holds his hands out. “Are we alright now?”

Abel and Mathieu both nod, amused.

Arthur brings his hands together, clasped triumphantly. “Excellent! Now. I don’t know about the two constables, but Mathieu and I had the misfortune of biscuits and biscuits alone for breakfast. We must do better. Shall we seek out some brunch?”

At the assent of their guests, Alfred smiles at Arthur. “Sure, but you’re buyin’, darlin’.”

Arthur looks affronted. “Excuse _you._ Do you not see our current company? We’re going Dutch.”

Abel says quickly, “Oh, you can pay for it. Don’t let me stop you.”

And they carry on like that as they walk down into the street. The overcast sky is the pale yellow of cream and it reflects beautifully in the puddles on the street, and Mathieu can’t join the conversation or comment on how lovely the day is, but he doesn’t mind. He’s here, and they know he’s here, and the dull pain in his throat and the joy in his heart prove to him above all else that he is alive, and he is loved. And—if goofy grins, warm green eyes, and tulip kisses are anything to judge by—those are both things that will not be changing anytime soon.

 

_The End._


	23. The End Finds Him Smiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, this is a bit of wish fulfillment for me (which any transtalia fanwork is, really). Whenever I end up on T, I'll look back on this and see how inaccurate I was. And what a glorious day that will be! :D
> 
> I dunno how many of you care about musical influences, but if you want to hear what I listened to when jacking this AU off, listen to 'Tape Five'. Basically any electroswing music. (and chillhop but I listen to that for everything I write :P)
> 
> Thank you all, immensely, for caring about this fic enough to get me to write these extra things. All of the love, my friends <3
> 
> Okay, the end, but for real this time ;)
> 
> With Belfaux's blessing, exit stage left.

**_1 9 4 2_ **

 

“Thank you again, Arthur,” says Feliciano, oozing relieved gratitude.

Bent down to work on the mangled lock of Ludwig’s front door, Arthur replies, “Thank me when I’m finished. And the next time our barbaric chief of police breaks off a key, don’t let him try to get in. This lock is murdered.”

Feliciano giggles. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

“If you taught me to pick locks, I could do it,” calls Claudia from the edge of the yard, where she and Romeo are digging for worms and interesting rocks.

“Spell responsibility,” calls Arthur, without looking.

At eight, her spelling ability is limited to two syllables. She makes a frustrated sound. “That’s no fair, Uncle Arthur!”

“Breaking into houses is hardly fair, Fraulein.” At last, the lock submits and Arthur pushes the door open. “There you are. Une porte ouverte.”

Feliciano clasps his fingers. “Thank you so much. What would we do without you?”

Arthur glances across the yard, where Claudia is dangling a worm over her brother’s mouth. “Dine on grubs, apparently.”

 _“Don’t eat that!”_ shrieks Feliciano. “That’s icky. Come inside and eat a cookie.”

“Cookies!” cries Romeo, pattering up the path in his wee rain boots. He hugs Feliciano’s legs, then—when prompted to _Thank Uncle Arthur_ —hugs Arthur’s legs, too. Claudia follows, peering up at Arthur with narrowed eyes. “Thank you, even if you didn’t teach me.”

“You’re welcome,” says Arthur, smiling faintly.

She tips up her chin. “French.”

“De rein.”

“Italian!”

“Prego.”

“German!”

“Bitte.”

She turns her head to give him a sidelong look; her eyes, blue like Ludwig’s, are so narrowed it’s a wonder she can even see Arthur. “American.”

Arthur squints back at her for a long moment, then slips into a Southern drawl so thick his vowels puddle on the welcome mat. “You’re mighty welcome, there, little lady.”

She dissolves into much squeakier giggles than Feliciano’s, then takes her little brother into the house. “Bye-bye, Uncle Arthur!”

He tips his hat to both of them, then takes out his pocket watch. Nearly noon; someone will have taken his seat at the card table. When his gaze lifts again, he sees Feliciano watching him with a pleasant mix of fondness and excitement in his amber eyes.

“You’re very good with them, you know,” says Feliciano.

“Other people’s children, yes,” agrees Arthur, snapping shut his watch and returning it to his pocket. “Do you have something planned for this evening?”

Panic clears his face, then hides behind a pathetic cover-up. “No. Er, why do you ask?”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “You seem like you’re looking forward to something. Then you say I’m good with the kids. I figured you were about to segue into asking Uncle Arthur to babysit.”

“Oh!” Here’s more relief. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

Arthur waits, but nothing more comes. “Well, what, then?”

Feliciano blinks. “Oh, um—I’m sorry, I have to help the kids with the cookies before they break something. But thank you again! Say hi to Toni for me!”

The door closes in Arthur’s face.

“Oh, that’s fine, Feliciano,” says Arthur. “I don’t want to come in for tea, but thank you for offering. Bloody hell.”

He’s off for the warehouse again, at last. He’d barely set out from the flat he shares with Alfred—not on Rook Street, a nice place on the French Shore—before Ludwig was pulling over to pick him up and ask him to save the day. It’s a longer walk now, but Arthur doesn’t mind. It’s not raining; it’s actually almost clear. Arthur takes a deep, satisfied breath as he walks—as deep as he can, with the bandages. They’re just part of him, after this long. A second skin. His deep breaths are not as deep as everyone else’s, and he can’t do the physical drills the other officers do, but that’s alright. He can live with it. And the strain on his vocal chords if he has to raise his voice while trying to keep it low. And the evil monthly visitor that barges in to remind him in bright red: _You are an abomination._

 _I can live with it,_ he thinks wearily. _I have this long, haven’t I?_

 

**TWENTY MINUTES LATER**

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” asks Mathieu.

Alfred glances at him, confused. They’re standing outside the warehouse, on the side facing the road. The big doors are open on the ocean side, so the chatter and laughter and music—a few officers like to bring guitars—drifts round to them on the briny breeze. It’s only noon, but it’s the weekend, so plenty are off-duty. Ludwig and Gilbert and Abel aren’t among them. Alfred shouldn’t technically be, either, but—oh, his heart quivers just thinking about it.

“Why wouldn’t he?” asks Alfred, putting his hands into his pockets.

“Well . . .” Mathieu gives a light shrug. “Maybe he’s—not happy this way, but . . . content? The way the doctor described it sounded like a lot of change in a pretty short time. It might be overwhelming.”

Alfred shakes his head. “I don’t think Arthur will be overwhelmed.”

Mathieu frowns thoughtfully, then shrugs again. “You know him better than I do.”

Alfred’s pretty sure he knows everything there is to know about Arthur. Waking up beside someone for sixteen years will do that. There are secrets, still, he has no issue admitting. The name is the main one, but Alfred isn’t bothered by it. Harmless, it is; indeed, if Alfred _did_ know the name, it would hurt Arthur. _I don’t want you to think it when you look at me. That’s why._ There’s nothing Arthur hasn’t told Alfred that Alfred needs or wants to know. Except, it occurs to him now, the answer to the question Mathieu posed. But there’s no way of knowing, because none of them knew this was even possible until today.

“Oh, there he is,” murmurs Mathieu. “I was worried Ludwig made the lock unpickable.”

The method of stalling for the doctor was Alfred’s choosing; he wanted everything to be lined up perfectly. And he knows, “No lock’s unpickable for him.”

A smile spreads over his face as Arthur crosses the threshold of the fence; his heart warms when it’s reflected, albeit smaller, on Arthur’s lips.

“Hi, you,” says Alfred, as Arthur stretches up for a peck. This development—the automatic kiss upon reunion—came about a few years ago, and Alfred is delighted that it shows no sign of leaving.

“Feliciano knows a secret,” says Arthur, by way of greeting. “Are you conniving?”

Mathieu’s eyes widen behind his glasses, but Alfred just shakes his head. “How long did he last?”

“Tsk. About five minutes, once I was done.” Arthur turns to Mathieu. “Are you in on it, as well?”

Mathieu barely opens his mouth before Arthur nods. “You’ve all turned against me, have you? What is it, have you arranged for me to be assassinated?”

“Yep,” replies Alfred, nodding solemnly. “We’ve had enough British snark. Time to meet your maker.”

Arthur scoffs. “My maker must be a drunkard if he can’t even pick the right body.”

Alfred grins, putting his arms around Arthur and Mathieu’s shoulders. “On that note, let’s go inside, shall we?”

As soon as they come into view, the musicians fall silent and the lively conversations quiet. Though people pretend to be intent on each other, Arthur can plainly tell everyone in the warehouse is watching him. _It’s not my birthday, or Alfred’s, or our anniversary,_ he thinks, mind racing. _What could this possibly be?_

Right on cue, a man with bright auburn hair walks down the stairs and over to the trio. He offers a hand. “Dr. MacAlister. You’re Arthur?”

Arthur shakes his hand. It’s smooth and cool like it’s been polished; not what he’d normally expect from a Scot, but he’s never considered the possibility of a Scottish doctor, so this is eye-opening all around.

“I am,” he says, ignoring the attention from around the room. “You wouldn’t happen to know the secret everyone’s keeping from me, would you?”

MacAlister’s thin lips curl into a smile. “I would. I’m gonna turn you into a man. If it’s what you’re after.”

Arthur now understands. This is indeed worth a secret, a surprise. And what a pleasant surprise it is. He’s quite sure he’s dreaming. He feels Alfred touching him, feels the excitement of everyone in the room as his coworkers, friends, family wait for his reaction.

“Well,” he says, and has to try again when his voice comes out soft and dreamy, “well, yes, you could say it’s what I’m after.” He almost doesn’t dare to ask. “But how . . .”

MacAlister’s smile turns on Alfred, who squeezes Arthur to his side. “Let’s go to Gil’s office.”

They leave Mathieu to smile at them with Antonio and Elizabeta. Arthur feels strange coming into Gilbert’s office without the Prussian here—and how comforting it would be if he was. _Alfred is here, I don’t need Gilbert, too._ Greedy of him, perhaps, but the more men who stay cool under pressure, the better. _Don’t be so frightened,_ he scolds himself as he sits down beside his lover. _The doctor is here to help you, for God’s sake._

MacAlister produces a small leather notebook and a pen. “Let me just ask a few questions of you, then I’ll describe what treatment looks like. Alright?”

Treatment, like he has a disease that needs to be cured. A wrong that must be righted. _That’s true._ He nods, and doesn’t mind in the slightest when Alfred twines their fingers. “Yes, alright.”

“How old are you?”

The answer to this question hasn’t felt accurate for years. “Almost forty-one.”

“How long have you felt the way you do?”

Arthur’s shoulders stiffen a little, but Alfred’s smile eases him. “Since I was a teenager. But earlier than that, really. I’ve never been fond of myself.”

Alfred nuzzles his hair for a moment. The doctor doesn’t look up. So long as Arthur doesn’t have to look anyone in the eye, he can keep calm.

“Have you experienced any heart problems? Headaches? Liver complications?”

“Not really. The occasional headache, not an abnormal amount.”

The doctor nods, pen scrawling. “Do you menstruate regularly?”

Arthur’s cheeks burn. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Any issues there? Swelling, cramping? Nausea?”

Arthur squirms, starts to rise. “I don’t think this is relevant—”

MacAlister’s kind gaze has a spark in it that warns strongly against impudence. “If it was irrelevant, Mr. Kirkland, I’d not be wasting our time with it.”

Arthur stills, realizes that despite the professional front the Scot puts up, he’d much rather discuss something other than menstruation. Arthur can imagine what the appeal for him is: he’d rather be done up in a surgeon’s garb, wrist-deep in guts, sewing people back to life on the battlefield. (And, indeed, MacAlister did serve as a medic in the war. He prefers not to dwell on it, and rarely looks at the medals it earned him.)

“Cramping, sometimes,” he replies quietly, sitting back down. Alfred knows this, is exceedingly familiar with the pain and humiliation Arthur endures each month, and yet it adds to the shame to admit it in his presence.

MacAlister nods. “Do you drink?”

“No,” replies Arthur, glad to leave the reproductive theme behind. “Never.”

MacAlister gives a _how-about-that_ frown. “Admirable. And good to hear. Best to have a healthy liver.”

“Well. Quite.”

The doctor looks up, then his puzzled expression clears. “For the treatment, I mean. It’s tablets, the treatment. Three or four a day, preferably with meals.”

Arthur’s heart sinks. How much is this snake oil salesman selling these magical pills for? And why were Alfred and Mathieu—and everyone else in their social circle—so convinced? It’s too good to be true. It’s impossible.

The doctor reads the skepticism (what con can’t?) and he caps his pen. “Are you familiar with hormones?”

Arthur and Alfred exchange a glance.

“We all have them,” offers Alfred haltingly. His twang makes him sound more uneducated than he is, something Arthur is still trying to train his brain out of hearing.

“They make you grow,” says Arthur. “You need them to have children.”

MacAlister smiles tolerably. “Aye. But the important bit is men and women have different hormones. Mr. Jones and I make testosterone. Where we get our deep voices and such. You, Mr. Kirkland, make estrogen. Where you get your monthly courses from.”

Arthur nods slowly. “You’re proposing I eat tablets with testosterone in? And that will make my voice deeper?”

“Yes, among other things. There are several effects. And this is new research; we haven’t yet seen all the possible changes. But I assure you it’s not dangerous. Just a shift in your ratio of hormones, that’s all. Letting the man inside take over, as it were.” He closes his notebook. “Though, I must say, you look much more convincing than my last two patients. They were distraught, before the treatment began. But you come off as male, to the untrained eye.”

Arthur can’t figure out if he should take that as a compliment or not, so he gives a slight incline of the head and says, “And these patients, they’re happy now? Healthy?”

MacAlister nods, steepling his deft fingers. He would make a fine lockpick. “Both happy, both healthy. The one in Scotland hopes to grow a beard before his fiftieth birthday. He’s round your age, now.”

“It takes that long?” asks Alfred, taken aback. “I shave every morning.”

“As do I,” agrees the doctor. “Most men do. But this treatment is like puberty, understand. An induced puberty. You’ll go through the changes that naturally occur between childhood and adulthood. So, expect spots on your face.”

Arthur couldn’t care less about something as inconsequential as spots. If this actually works . . . His stomach twists with glee. “What else happens?”

“The other patients reported hunger very quickly. Your body needs fuel for its changing.”

Alfred chuckles. “Uh oh. If you’re like I was, we’ll have to convert the guest room into a pantry. I woke up in the middle of the night hungry, a few times.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. How has he never heard about this phenomenon? The shifting of boy to man, a starving ordeal. He had no idea. But—oh, how is this real? They’re talking about things that will happen to him! Those other patients could be made up, though . . .

He sits up straight, intent on putting to rest the skeptical voice in his head. “How much does the treatment cost?”

MacAlister smiles, like he was waiting for this. “Nothing, for the first six months.”

 _Oh._ The skeptic wasn’t expecting that. “But why?”

“That’s when a lot of changes happen. It’ll prove that it’s real, and it’s a trial period. I’ve had three patients, before you. One only lasted half a year before it proved too much for him.”

Alfred squeezes Arthur’s hand; Arthur doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Quietly, Arthur says, “You still said _him._ ”

“Aye. He’s still a man.” MacAlister’s kind look returns. “As you are. You know better than anybody, the body means nothing.”

Arthur’s heart slips into the warm, lovely waters of validation. He turns to Alfred. “What do you think?”

Alfred has a smile prepared. “I think whatever you think. If this’ll make you happy, I’m happy with it. And if you change your mind, that’s okay, too.” He finishes with a kiss to Arthur’s nose. “I’m with you, partner.”

Once, it would’ve drawn tears to his eyes. But Arthur knows, now, how steadfast and beautiful Alfred’s love for him is. He still doesn’t think he deserves it, but he can accept it with grace. He kisses Alfred, lips curved to match the smile, then turns to MacAlister. “When can I start?”

 

**SIX HOURS LATER**

That night, as it turns out, is when Arthur takes his first tablet with a sip of tea. Alfred is watching him over a raised but untouched bite of pork. Arthur waits until he feels the pill’s journey end in his stomach—not truly end, of course, just a pit stop until it’s sent to his bloodstream with the help of his liver—then says, “If you’re going to stare at me until I sprout a mustache, your food’s going to get cold.”

Alfred smiles sheepishly, chewing and swallowing. “Sorry. It’s just, you know, excitin’, isn’t it? This is where it starts. We’ll look back and say _Wow, this all started with pork chops for supper._ ”

“How sentimental of you.” Arthur gives a light smile. “You aren’t worried, at all?”

Alfred’s eyes widen in concern. “Are you worried?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not about myself. But . . . I don’t know. It’s a lot of change. He said even the personality might change. Perhaps you won’t like the man inside me.”

Alfred reaches across the table to take Arthur’s hand. “Arthur. Listen. He said you might experience increased aggression or a shorter temper. He didn’t say your entire personality will change. And I love the man inside you. I’m havin’ supper with him right now, and I’ll carry him to bed in a few hours when he falls asleep readin’ on the couch.”

Arthur presses his lips together to keep from grinning like a fool, but Alfred knows what he’s doing, knows everything about him and loves him in spite of it. Arthur runs a fingertip over the gold band he gave Alfred for their ten-year. “But what if I grow a better beard than you can?”

“Well, then I’ll have to kill you,” replies Alfred solemnly.

Arthur nods, lifting his cup. “I’d expect nothing less. Have Gilbert do it, he’s quite bitter about his facial hair. Or lack thereof.”

Alfred grins. “So cruel, darlin’.”

“Increased aggression,” he says, sipping his tea.

 

**ONE WEEK LATER**

“So?” says Lovino, lounging luxuriously on one of the silken sofas in St. Raphaela’s parlor. His little brother has gained weight like housewives do, widening his thighs and rounding his belly and chin. Lovino is softened a little by age, but his thirty-nine is far more regal than Arthur’s was. Antonio has given nearly all managerial responsibilities to Lovino, and the Italian rules St. Raphaela’s like a queen. (His word, because, as he says, _Queens have more class than kings._ ) “Do you feel like a man?”

Arthur brushes coconut crumbs from his lips. They’re never without sweets at the bordello, one of Queen Lovino’s first decrees. “I feel hungry, mostly. I don’t sound different, do I?”

“No,” replies Lovino, and Arthur appreciates how matter-of-fact he is. Five minutes before, when he asked Antonio, the Spaniard looked so guilty for telling him no (and even then he mostly said _Eh, well, it’s hard to tell, um, I’m not sure_ ) Arthur had to pat the poor man’s shoulder and inform him he knew, he was just checking. “Did the doctor say when your voice would deepen?”

“A month when I’ll be able to definitely hear a difference,” replies Arthur, popping a truffle into his mouth. “A year to fully change.”

Lovino frowns, the delicate frown of an absently rueful goddess. “It all takes so long. Shame.”

Arthur shakes his head. “After waiting this long, a year is nothing at all.”

Lovino tips his head to one side. He has always regarded Arthur with a certain respect, and it’s that mixed with fondness that softens his hazel gaze. “You do look a little different.”

Arthur pauses in licking melted chocolate from his fingers. “Do I?”

Lovino nods. “You look more awake. Your eyes are brighter.” He sips some wine. “You just look—more you.”

As startlingly lovely—and, sometimes, as rare—as a sunrise over Belfaux, Arthur smiles. He does have more energy, but he knows what Lovino means. He isn’t burdened by the truth that he will always be this way. There is light at the end of the tunnel, at last. He’s never known happiness, _hopefulness_ , quite like this.

“I feel more me,” he says, and relishes the pride he feels to for once actually enjoy being Arthur Kirkland.

 

**ONE MONTH LATER**

“It’s starting to get eerie now,” says Gilbert.

“What is?” asks Mathieu from his seat on Abel’s lap.

Gilbert tips his beer bottle toward the card table. “He hasn’t spoken for almost an hour.”

There’s no question to whom he’s referring. Just then, Arthur checks, but gives no verbal cue; just knocks his knuckles against the felt. The last game was couples, so Alfred covered the talking, but now Alfred is discussing a case with Elizabeta on the other side of the room.

Gilbert gets up, crosses to the table, claps Antonio on the shoulder. “How is Lady Luck this evening?”

Antonio smiles, shuffling his cards. “She’s not currently speaking with me.” In a game where hands should be still, lest they form a tell, Antonio’s are always moving. Over the years, his shaking has not lessened, but he has learned to work around it. He can do some shuffles, and he can deal, though slowly; no one minds waiting for him. He won’t be a professional origamist, but he has his cards again.

Gilbert squeezes the Spaniard’s shoulder, then walks round to Arthur’s chair. “And how is Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur’s expression is canny, knowing. He doesn’t bother with excuses, just replies, “Fi-ine.”

The voice crack has been waiting for an hour, and it makes itself heard. Most who hear it have to stifle laughter; Mathieu and Alfred glance over with sympathetic smiles. Arthur has a faint, self-deprecating smile on his own lips, because it is funny. Correction: it was funny the first few times. (In fact, he and Alfred laughed so hard that first night they both got hiccups, but that’s another story.) Now it’s just annoying. Yes, of course, he’s glad his voice is lowering. It’s got an interesting hum to it now; he can feel it in his chest, and it’s wonderful. But he can’t enjoy the lowness if it cracks into falsetto every five bloody seconds.

Gilbert gives his arm a gentle punch. “Hang in there. We all had to deal with it, none of us are any better.” This said loud enough so everyone can hear. He’s no longer the leader of a gang, but he is a high-ranking constable who shares the bed of their Grand Duke; he has lost none of his authoritative presence.

Arthur gives him a small, grateful smile. Gilbert winks, taps two fingers on the tabletop. “Wanna make this game more interesting? Five pounds says the Brit wins the game.”

Even though Arthur’s pile of chips is the smallest, none of the players agree. Antonio shakes his head most vehemently. “No bet.”

Arthur and Gilbert give matching devious smirks, and Gilbert says, “I’ll leave you to your culling, Kirkland.”

 

**THREE HOURS LATER**

Alfred only remembers his dream as he wakes, because they are one and the same: he dreams of making love to Arthur, the warm press of him in the dark, and then he wakes to Arthur writhing against him, whimpering needily against his neck. A hand snakes down to wrap around his sleep-stirred cock, and Alfred groans thickly, “Again?”

The doctor provided a written list of changes that weren’t appropriate for midday conversation, and an increased sex drive was one of them. Arthur wasn’t exactly wanting for libido before the treatment began; Alfred can count on his fingers how many times Arthur has rolled away from him over the years. But now it’s every night, multiple times. Arthur has taken to locking their office door at lunchtime, and—well, it’s not like Alfred hadn’t thought about fucking him over his desk.

“Alfred,” mumbles Arthur plaintively. His other hand grasps Alfred’s wrist, moves Alfred’s palm to cup his pelvis so he can grind into his calloused skin. Something that wasn’t mentioned on any lists: Arthur’s hips have become overwhelmed with the urge to thrust. Yes, he felt it a little before, but nothing compared to now. He’s even worse than Alfred was during puberty; Alfred half-expects Arthur to mount his leg like a dog.

“Yes—oh, God, yes—” Arthur’s not crying out yet, but his breathless moans are rising higher as Alfred jerks him off. This one’s on the list: clitoral enlargement. It took them a few moments to figure out what that meant, and even then they both had questions, namely _How much?_ So far, it’s grown half an inch longer and a tiny bit wider. Alfred can’t rub it the way he used to, but he’s settled on a finger-and-thumb technique that works quite well. It takes Arthur a bit longer to get wet now, so Alfred sends him over the top before he pushes inside, because God knows Arthur won’t be satisfied with just one orgasm. Alfred can see, now, why men have stronger sex drives but can’t have multiple orgasms. _How the hell would we ever get anything done?_

Arthur straddles him, and Alfred’s only just awake enough to remember: “Woah, woah, woah. Come on, darlin’.”

Arthur’s groan is frustrated, but he crawls to the bedside table and returns with a condom. He rolls it on with practised—lots and lots of practise—ease and Alfred curses as the familiar wet heat envelopes him once again. He can only faintly see Arthur by the weak moonlight through the blinds: a pale phantom gyrating over him, rolling his hips downward to take as much in as he can. Arthur doesn’t bind at night, so Alfred can distinguish the darker skin of the areolas through the gloom. He never touches Arthur’s breasts, no matter how tempting they may be, because he knows Arthur hates them and to get pleasure from them is a slap in the face. Even now, when he’s desperate for sensation, he doesn’t want Alfred’s hands anywhere near his chest. Alfred has never protested. Why would he?

Eventually, they finish and Arthur flops off of him. Alfred lies still a moment, catching his breath. This won’t last forever, he knows. Well. Hopes. Not that he doesn’t want to have sex, but . . .

“Tired?” asks Gilbert the next day when he catches Alfred in a jaw-cracking yawn.

Alfred nods, dropping two cubes of sugar into his coffee.

Gilbert grins at him. “Late night, huh?”

Alfred takes a long, bleary sip. “Goddamn. I feel old.”

“If you feel old, God help me.” Gilbert pours himself a mug and inspects the box of pastries the rookies are tasked with bringing in. Gilbert hasn’t escaped the softening of middle age, but he never misses the drills Ludwig runs the constables through. “How’s your back feeling?”

“Oh, same as usual.” Gilbert’s holding the box open, so Alfred takes a chocolate donut out. “Arthur does all the work.”

Gilbert bursts out laughing. “Atta boy. If I made Roderich do the work, he’d deport me.”

Both of them have infectious laughter, so it takes Alfred a moment to get out, “Only after midnight. I put my time in for round one. My hip’s kinda botherin’ me, actually.”

Just then Ludwig comes in, and Gilbert says sorrowfully, “Bad news, Bruder. Our cowboy has a hitch in his giddyup.”

Ludwig shakes his head as they dissolve once again into laughter. “Überwucherte Kinder.”

 

**FIVE MONTHS LATER**

Arthur looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s bound and shirtless, and he can’t stop tracing the edge of his waist—once a dramatic curve, now a straighter line. Not totally straight; it will likely never be totally straight. But he’s filling out into a more masculine shape, and his eyes devour it with even more euphoria than Alfred’s do.

Arthur lifts his arms, flexes them. His biceps are laughable compared to the other constables’, but they’re there. He can actually feel them now; he has some strength to summon, if he wants to. He drops his arms, leans close to the mirror. He’s been shaving with Alfred in the mornings (what a domestic joy, both of them melting snowmen in their shaving cream). His stubble is patchy and, bizarrely, has a ginger tint to it. But it grows, and Arthur delights in pretending to be annoyed at having to shave.

“Good day, sir or madam,” he says. He needs no artificial deepening; his new voice is just what he wanted. Not too scratchy, not too rumbly, and still capable of going high (he’s lost a few keys, but nothing he ever used in public anyway). Masculine. Just beautifully, unquestionably male.

“My name is Arthur Kirkland,” he says. How small and innocent that young thief was who said those words into a cracked mirror in a flat on Rook Street. How uncomfortable in his skin. Arthur marvels at how alien that past dysphoria seems now. It’s been like watching a pot boil. Nothing, nothing, and then—his voice, his arms, his skin, his heart—he’s home.

 

**ONE WEEK LATER**

“I’m glad to see you smiling,” says Dr. MacAlister at the docks. “You’re happy with the treatment, are you?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I can’t even put it into words. Trust me, I’ve been trying. I don’t know what to say to tell you how grateful I am to you.”

The doctor smiles. “Trust me, I know. That’s what all my patients tell me. Thanks is enough. It’s my pleasure.”

They’ve already discussed payment; the doctor is only here to deliver another batch of pills, and he’s only doing it personally so he can check up on his latest patient. In five years, MacAlister will take Arthur under the knife and remove those bothersome things from his chest. The doctor will decide to set up office in Belfaux, where there are more people like Arthur than he thinks. But, for now, they’ll part ways.

“Back to Edinburgh for me,” remarks MacAlister. “Where are you headed? Off to lock up some evildoers?”

Arthur gives a self-deprecating smile. “No, I’m meeting someone else here, actually. He’s—”

“Uncle Arthur!”

As it always does when he hears that voice, Arthur’s heart feels like a flower: it blooms and blooms until there’s no room left in his chest. He turns to see Peter walking toward him, suitcase in hand, face bright with a grin.

“I’ll leave you to it,” says MacAlister. “Don’t be afraid to keep in touch.”

Arthur mumbles a farewell, unable to look away as Peter approaches and pulls him into a hug. He’s wearing the waistcoat Arthur bought him before he went off to school, and he looks so dashing and capable . . . Arthur squeezes him tighter.

“Have you been weightlifting?” Peter pulls back, looks down at Arthur with those blue eyes of his. Even after all these years, those eyes still make a tiny, tiny sliver of fear twinge within Arthur. “You look different, almost.”

Arthur smiles lightly. “Do I sound different?”

“Bloody hell!” Peter’s eyes go round. “Who are you and what’ve you done with Uncle Arthur?”

“Language,” chides Arthur, automatic. “I can’t imagine your professors tolerate swearing.”

“Not from scholars, no,” admits Peter. They start to walk, to get out of other travelers’ way. “From themselves, that’s another story. But—what’s happened to you?”

“I’ve started a treatment,” replies Arthur. Peter is one of the few members of their circle who doesn’t know the truth about Arthur. He’s been hesitant to tell all of the children, but Peter most of all—because there’s more than one secret Peter doesn’t know. Arthur has spent hours contemplating when, if ever, to tell his boy the truth of where he came from. He knows Peter wonders about his biological parents—who wouldn’t, in his shoes? Tino and Berwald still don’t know, either; Mathieu has sworn he’ll never tell them if Arthur wishes. But it’s just . . . it’s just . . .

“Treatment?” Peter’s asking. “For what? Are you ill?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing serious. It’s just—a hormonal thing,” he says. “An adjustment to the, ah, testosterone ratio.”

Peter hasn’t got a clue what that means, but he knows better than to inquire about things to do with health. Tino has told him enough nursing anecdotes that he knows he most definitely does not want to be a doctor. He’s actually been considering engineering—building ships and cannons and great machines. But he’s glad to have a holiday away from Oxford, free time to visit his family. He smiles at Arthur. “Well, have you missed me?”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “Oh, did you leave? I never noticed.”

“Oh, ha ha.” Peter nudges Arthur’s side. “You know I’m your favorite nephew.”

Arthur reaches up to straighten Peter’s fedora. “My favorite nephew who wears his hat like a lounge lizard.”

Peter laughs, and Arthur knows that loud, proud laugh is from Mathias. No one speaks of the man anymore, and—aside from Berwald and Tino—no one ever thinks of him. It’s been decades; Arthur doesn’t grieve the way he used to. _There’s no need to dwell on it. Nothing will change._ But it’s a lot easier not to think about it when Peter’s gone.

 _Never think that again,_ he tells himself, grasping Peter’s hand fiercely. _Never think it would be better if Peter wasn’t around. He is the best thing to ever come from you._

Peter squeezes his hand back, thinking it only a show of affection. “That’s right. I’ve been wooing sweethearts in England. They think I’m exotic, don’t you know.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Peter, if a girl tells you you’re exotic, court someone else. This family has enough nutters as it is.”

 

**ONE WEEK LATER**

While Peter is visiting with his papas and Alfred is babysitting with Mathieu and Ludwig is taking Feliciano to a play and Gilbert is having a tea party with Roderich and Abel is finishing up some paperwork and Antonio is feeding Lovino chocolate-dipped strawberries, Arthur goes for a walk in the rain. It’s not pouring, but it’s more than a sprinkle. A constant reminder: _drop, drop, I’m here, drop._ The patters and hisses of rain are the bassline of Belfaux; it’s just as much a comfort to Arthur as the gusty inhales and exhales he hears when he uses Alfred’s chest as a pillow. Arthur walks with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and though his eyes still find every shining bauble or bulging wallet of passersby, he doesn’t feel tempted to steal. _Things change,_ he thinks.

He didn’t plan his destination, but his feet know where he wants to go. The flat on Rook Street had fallen into disrepair without Russian money keeping it fairly maintained, but Roderich’s initiative to clean up the English Shore has proven more and more successful each year. Buildings that once housed squatters now offer affordable shelter. Far from luxury, but better than the alternative. Francis’s flat now houses a single mum and her three children. Arthur knows this for certain because Gilbert told him. _I was talking to her today, actually. She wanted me to thank Roderich for leaving toys for her kids in the flat. I told her Roderich never left anyone toys. She said she couldn’t think who else it would be, since she left the door locked. I told her nobody has a key to the flat but her. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?_

Arthur smiles faintly to himself, looking up at the old building. Old bones, new face—just like him. He wonders, not for the first time, if his partner in crime can see him. _Are you happy, where you are?_ he thinks. _I am._

There’s no response, of course, but Arthur doesn’t mind. He’ll find out eventually. He no longer believes one way or another about heaven and hell, but he knows he’ll see Francis again. Perhaps he’ll see Densen, too. His father. And his mother. _Why not?_

He gives the building a small nod, then turns on his heel, headed to the flat he shares with Alfred on the other side of the city. Halfway there, he has to hail a cab. The driver recognizes him, laughs. “Monsieur Kirkland, you need a car! You drive more than walk these days.”

“Ah, I’m getting old,” says Arthur. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Oui,” agrees the cabbie sagely. “Things change.”

Arthur glances out the window, smiling fondly at cozy uptown through the water-spotted window. Things change, indeed. _Including me._ He’s scraped as much darkness from his soul as he’ll ever manage. Secrets linger, but they’re jagged stones worn smooth by time. _I’m a good man,_ he tries. It doesn’t feel so far off, now. It doesn’t chafe his neck or fit oddly about his waist. _A good man,_ just like Alfred always told him. _A good man,_ Arthur would always echo, like the liar he was.

But now, finally: _I’m a good man._

And he’s telling the truth, in every word.

 

_The End._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Salutations Distinguées](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038012) by [Kitty (Katatafish)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty)
  * [Keep Out The Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401314) by [Kitty (Katatafish)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty)




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